


I Will Try to Fix You

by Trinity_Blaze



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Autism Spectrum, Breaking Up & Making Up, Breathplay, Canon Disabled Character, Control Issues, Cutting, Daddy Kink, Delusions, Depression, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubcon Kissing, F/M, Flogging, Heroin, Interludes for John Silver POV, Light BDSM, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Marijuana, Oral Sex, POV James Flint, Percocet, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Psychobabble, Public Hand Jobs, Public Sex, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, Substance Abuse, Thomas lives, Touch Aversion, Trust Issues, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, anger management issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-15 11:48:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trinity_Blaze/pseuds/Trinity_Blaze
Summary: Just a modern AU where these two emotionally constipated guys from completely opposite sides of the tracks just so happen to discover how well their demons play together.Or, My attempt to do this awesome prompt some justice: A Thomas-lives!AU wherein, during the course of their relationship, James starts showing more Flint-like tendencies (brutality, anger, willingness to commit ruthless atrocities in pursuit of his goals, dark thoughts, etc) and it causes a rift between him and Thomas. He then meets Silver who totally embraces that side of him. His relationship with Thomas crumbles as his relationship with Silver develops.





	1. When you Try your Best but you Don't Succeed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [xJuniperx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> Work title and all subsequent chapter titles from the song [Fix You](https://youtu.be/k4V3Mo61fJM) by Coldplay, because I am a sentimental sap and this song gives me all the feels, and Silver/Flint gives me all the feels, and so of course I'd put them together and torture myself because, masochism. K bye.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter James Flint.

The number carved into the front of the silver coin seemed largely insignificant up close. _Twenty-four._ He flipped the coin to read the back before deciding to pick it up and actually hold it in his hand, its weight far greater than its physical mass.

“To thine own self be true,” he recited, tracing a finger over the same words etched along the perimeter of the shiny metal keepsake.

He’d never bothered to introduce himself. He couldn’t stand the sound of his own voice echoing the sentiment: _Hello, my name is James, and I’m an alcoholic_. The rest of those sitting in the circle of chairs and sullen expressions would merely skip over him as he refused, and he was always exceedingly grateful that they didn’t push him to be cordial. He was so very tired of being fucking cordial. 

James clutched the 24-hour sobriety chip in his hand as if it would somehow give him the strength not to leave this meeting and head straight for a bar, but its glisten only dulled with the sweat of his palm. He had that way about him - a way that dampened, tarnished, and ruined all that was good in whatever he touched. He wasn’t really surprised when this silly symbol of his current effort suffered a similar fate.

It’d been his sixth meeting in four weeks, and at every single one he’d been forced to acknowledge the fact that it’d only been 24 hours since his last drink. Still, he’d grab one of the coins before he’d leave, foregoing the congratulations and obligatory hugs given for what was regarded as ‘the hardest part of recovery.’ James had taken the first step too many times already; it would no doubt be upon the heels of two monstrous steps back. That was the way of it. The accolades were ill-suited.

He liked the N.A. meetings more than the Alcoholics Anonymous ones, however. And it wasn’t merely because of their proximity to the bar (although that _had_ added to their charm). He’d tried A.A. once, but all the blubbering about broken families and feelings had made his skin feel crawly and he hadn't had the wherewithal to control his facial expressions. At least the people in N.A. generally stuck to stories of their past fuck-ups, almost as if they were reliving their heydays and trying to outdo each other’s rock-bottoms. This jibed well with James. The past was where he lived now anyhow. 

He felt more at home admitting he was an addict than an alcoholic. In truth, James was addicted to many things: self-loathing, anger, destruction, but none did incapacitate as much as his regret. He’d developed a sort of symbiosis with all other aspects surrounding Miranda’s death, but regret was the only thing that kept James up at night, kept Thomas up behind him trying to quell his trembling, and smoothing James’ sweat drenched hair from its pasted position against his forehead, kept James returning to the blasted N.A. meetings, and picking up that stupid fucking chip over and over and over again.

_Keep coming back. It works!_

The bar just down the street from the Narcotics Anonymous meeting was a dusty, dank excuse for a business, but by some odd miracle of the alcohol Gods they served 1792 Kentucky straight Bourbon whiskey and that more than made up for the fact that the lights over the worn down entrance buzzed and flickered, and the letter ‘A’ in the sign for _The Walrus Lounge_ had been completely extinguished for as long as James could remember going there. It was old. It was out of the way. The barstools were wooden without any cushioning and the bartop was scratched and stained with the hollow lives spent above it. It was depressing. But James felt comfortable there. He needn’t be a psychology professor there, or a doting boyfriend, a recovering alcoholic, a murdering bastard - he need only be that broody fellow who came in once a week and ordered a 1792 Small Batch, neat. This was more than enough for him.

This night, James graced the lounge for only a moment. He never used plastic to pay, never wanting to leave a paper trail as if his actions were illegal. He fumbled with a few loose quids in his pocket and downed his third shot of bourbon without even tasting it. It was purely to take the edge off; to stop the shakes from the cheap coffee and the far too sugary cookies they’d offered at every meeting. He left a pile of crumpled notes and some coins on the bartop before sliding off his chair and heading for the door.

“Sir,” the bartender called out. James turned. “I don’t think this is money.”

James eyed the shiny silver coin which taunted him with its worthlessness from between the man’s thumb and index finger. “You’re right,” he conceded. “It holds absolutely no value at all.”

 

  **oo**

 

“You smell like ash and rye,” said Thomas, not bothering to turn over on his pillow in any further acknowledgement. “Won’t you at least take a shower before getting into bed?”

James shrugged out of his jacket. “It’s bourbon actually,” he snarked.

He climbed into bed and laid himself on top of Thomas, much to the taller man’s protestation. “At least take off your shoes,” Thomas chuckled, turning over onto his back and melting under James’ weight.

The kiss he fell into was always sweet, laced with orange from Thomas’ evening tea and a hint of mint from his toothpaste. James loved it most after a long day at the university, but these times - when his own tongue was still vaguely covered in the bitter concoction of vanilla, caramel, and rye - were a constant competitor, if not a close second. He rubbed a hand along Thomas’ smooth face until it cradled the back of his neck.

Thomas sighed beneath him. “How much have you had to drink tonight?”

“Not much,” James lied. “I had a drink while trying to get through a few more term papers. These kids… it’s as if they’re under the impression that a fancy rewording of the same contrived argument will magically earn them a passing grade. If you were constantly subjected to such poor excuses for composition, I am fairly certain you’d be drinking also.”

James earned a smile for that remark. “Poor thing,” Thomas placated. “I _am_ blessed to have such wonderful students. English Lit has been good to me.”

“Don’t rub it in,” James grinned.

Thomas lifted his head and granted James a small peck in apology. “Now get off. You’re going to have me smelling like an ashtray also. Why do you insist on smoking those God awful cigars?”

“They make me feel important,” James joked. Thomas rolled his eyes but it only made James’ smile widen. ”Come take a shower with me.”

“But I’ve already showered.”

“Well,” said James, “I suppose I’m just going to have to get you dirty then.” 

Thomas knew absolutely nothing about James attending N.A. meetings. James figured it would only worry him, and he was so easily excitable as it was already. Miranda’s death had destroyed him in ways James could not compensate for, but it surely was not for a lack of trying. When she passed, he did everything he could to get Thomas through it: he’d cooked for him, he’d bathed him, he’d done his laundry, he’d let him sleep the days away behind closed shutters, he’d let him mourn without judgment. And Thomas was still mourning, but the load seemed just that much lighter for him whenever James was around. Thomas had managed to get back to work within a few months, and James wanted - needed desperately, for his own self-worth, to believe that he’d had something to do with that. 

His own particular brand of grief was shrouded in secrecy, reduced to the bottoms of gold-topped bottles and the darkness of late night showers after Thomas was asleep, the sound of beating water muffling his painful sobs. Sometimes, when the anguish proved too great for sleep, he’d climb out of bed and go for a drive in the middle of the night, park at the edge of a cliff overlooking the city, and simply weep. He’d clutch the steering wheel until his joints ached and he’d try to find a reason not to drive straight off that cliff. And it was during such a night that Miranda came to him.

James had looked up from his lap and out at the gleaming lights of the city beneath him, eyes soaking in a thick haze of regret and adultery. Then something stirred in his peripheral. When he’d looked over to find Miranda sitting beside him, blood leaking from a puckered hole above her eyebrow, he’d screamed and flung himself from the car. It’d taken him the better part of an hour to get his wits about him, to pull himself from the rocky, dirt road and peer into his car again, and to steady his hands enough to turn the key in the ignition and set the car in reverse.

The second time, the apparition had actually spoken to him. It was during dinner, across the kitchen table from Thomas. Miranda had set both her hands onto Thomas’ shoulders and smiled. Her skin sparkled like summer sands and her dress hailed from another century entirely, emerald, flowly, and regal. She was beautiful. And then she was filthy, stained with soot from demolished city streets and splatters from what looked like rotten vegetables. Crusted blood clung to her face. James froze, doing his best possible impersonation of not shaking, but he eventually excused himself from the table.

 _It’s not your fault._  

The DSM-5 would categorize his visions as a component of ‘pathological grief,’ not exactly psychosis but merely transient hallucinations associated with bereavement. It had actually been the topic of his dissertation, but studying it academically as it pertained to others and actually experiencing the wretched thing first hand were two entirely different things. As it turned out, having various degrees in psychology and thanatology did not exactly make one any better equipped to deal with their own delusions, and schizophrenia was a constant bookmark in James’ ill-advised story of self-diagnosis. If he were being honest, he’d wanted it to be as simple as insanity, maybe then he wouldn’t have to take responsibility for his part in all of it. 

Thomas bit his bottom lip. “How about we get dirty _while_ we get clean?” he asked mischievously.

“I like the way you think,” James obliged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the [chip](http://www.thetokenshop.com/Wendells-24-Hour-AA-Chips_p_11.html) James is holding in the beginning.


	2. When you Get What you Want but Not  What you Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter John Silver

Sitting in the back of the auditorium felt a bit odd. It could have been the fact that only two hours had passed since he'd been looking up at rows of students from the front of a room quite similar; it also could have been because James hadn’t really felt like going to an N.A. meeting to begin with, but he dragged himself to one across town nonetheless, opting for a change in scenery to relieve his persistent bouts of depressive rage. Whatever the case, he figured sitting in on a group and not participating was better than punching walls in his office. His knuckles still ached.

He looked down at the purpling skin and wondered what story he’d make up for Thomas this time. He’d gotten his hand slammed in a door once; another time he’d fallen from his chair while trying to change a lightbulb in his office. Lying to Thomas was beginning to sound an awful lot like a second language, which only added to James' self-loathing, which only fed his anger. Wash, rinse, repeat. He wondered just how long he could possibly keep up this charade.

The door to his left squeaked and slammed with the arrival of a latecomer. James didn’t bother to investigate, instead choosing to rub the torn skin along the bones of his hand in contemplation of his newest excuse.

“How nice of you to join us,” sang the woman leading the group.

James looked across the room in time to catch their latest addition holding his arms out to his sides and smiling slyly. “Max, you flatter me as always.”

His hair was still wet from the rain and it dripped onto the shoulders of his black leather jacket, despite being mostly tucked under the hood of a grey sweatshirt. His jeans were slightly torn at the knees and pinched into Doc Martens which were unlaced and clunked as he walked. He looked absolutely ridiculous. So ridiculous in fact, that James could not take his eyes off of him.

The man strolled over to the group, a distinctive limp causing James to automatically wonder about him. The stranger pulled up a chair and pushed it into the circle backside first, then, straddling the seat, he lowered himself down. “What did I miss?” he asked, tapping the back of the seat to rhythmically match his words. “By the way, you look lovely today. Did you do something with your hair?”

Max fought a smirk. “Not much, John. I am glad you could make it.”

John winked and rested an elbow and a forearm onto the back of the chair, smoothing his mustache and goatee in one downward swoop of his palm. When another woman in the group began to speak, John surveyed the room in apparent restlessness, inevitably landing his hungry blue eyes on James.

“Oi,” he called out. “What are you doing back there, mate? Taking notes?”

Max reached out and placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “ _Shhh_ , _mon_ _cher_ ,” she whispered. “He is new.”

“And he’ll continue to be if he sits all the way back there,” John added. “Come on down here and join us at the cool kids table.”

James squirmed in his seat, the prickle of anxiety crawling up his spine as the entire group turned to look at him. He swallowed and rose to his feet.

“You do not have to,” Max insisted, shooting an admonishing glare at John. “John, we talked about this.”

He disregarded her. “There! See? He’s coming. No harm, no foul,” he grinned.

James walked toward the group looking everywhere but at the one man responsible, grabbed one of the folded chairs leaning against the stage, and sat it just barely within the circle. The two people on either side of him scooted over a bit in order to let him take a seat.

He didn’t bother to look up.

“Okay,” Max continued. “Who would like to start with how their week has been, _hmmm_?”

James listened to the various stories passed around the group, sometimes feeling himself smile, sometimes frowning, sometimes nodding in recognition of whatever was being described at the moment. It was truly amazing how recognizable the disease of addiction was despite the many different faces it took. The desperation, the sadness, the anger, the guilt, they were almost uniform amongst the group. Almost. And then it was John’s turn to speak.

“My week was fucking fantastic,” he grunted, stretching his arms far over his head. He took a second to yawn. “We’ve almost sold out of tickets for next week’s show. You all should come out.”

“I am very glad to hear it,” Max encouraged. “So you have been focusing on your music then?”

“Always.”

“Wonderful. It is so important to find hobbies that fuel our creativity, and if they can develop our skills, all the better.”

“Definitely. Playing guitar actually makes me _very_ skilled with my hands,” John said suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows.

A few of the women in the group chuckled and he returned a smirk for one of them.

“Would anyone else like to share?” Max moved on, unfazed, as if she’d grown used to John’s antics.

“What about you?” said John, locking eyes with James yet again.

James stiffened.

“Again, you do not have to,” Max reiterated.

John stared at James as if his gaze were arguing otherwise. But James knew his type well. John was a narcissist: arrogant, entitled, exploitative, and lacking boundaries. He’d had him pegged from the moment he’d sat down, and John’s random outbursts during the session only confirmed his diagnosis. The subtle but persistent bragging, the grandiose body language, the inclination toward flattery - it was textbook.

James held John’s eyes for a few more seconds before looking away again. _Not today, clown_.

“Well, my week was shitty,” said a man to James’ right.

John rolled his eyes and frowned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one to his mouth then rummaged through a few other pockets before finding his lighter. He flipped it open. Max scowled at him.

John sighed. “Yes, mum.”

He got up from his seat and headed for the door, presumably to enjoy a smoke break.

When the Serenity Prayer was droned and the meeting was officially over, James once again contemplated taking the 24-hour chip, but ultimately decided against it. He shook Max’s hand and she thanked him for coming. A couple of the other members of the group took it upon themselves to gift James with some motivational words which he was certain he did not need, one among them going so far as to say that they’d hoped to see him again next week, but James highly doubted he’d be back. The group was too codependent; too close. James didn’t like the familiarity they all seemed to have with one another. And they were also a little too touchy-feely for his personal taste.

He made his way to the bathroom to splash some water on his face, the intrusive contact of so many strangers trying to pry into him causing him to break out into hot red rashes across his back and neck. He wasn’t exactly sure when this particular ailment had started, but his touch aversion only seemed to grow in strength whenever he was sober and anyone other than Thomas got a bit too close to him. He took a deep breath and looked into the mirror; counted backward from 100 by threes.

To say James was high-strung would be a terrible understatement. His job required considerable amounts of mental taxation, his obligations to Thomas also left him with little time to devote to himself. And then, there was the matter of his guilt.

James didn’t deserve Thomas. If he’d known the truth about it all…

The sound of the paper towel dispenser echoed through the desolate bathroom. James patted his face dry then tugged at the collar of his shirt, examining himself in the mirror to see if the redness had subsided. The pinkish skin peeking back at him was still warm to the touch but it seemed to be calming itself. James pressed a damp palm to it just to help it along.

It was still raining when he pushed open the front door of the building. He turned up the collar of his jacket and prepared himself for the cold sting which was sure to follow, but when he stepped out an arm reached out across him.

“Don’t go out in that,” a voice warned.

James looked over in a start to find the curly haired narcissist from earlier with a hand latched onto his coat. A cigarette dangled from his lips as he spoke. “You’ll catch your death.”

He used his other hand to trap the cigarette between the pads of his pointer and thumb and pull it from his mouth, exhaling a cloud of dim white smoke. He’d since removed his hood, revealing his hair to be much longer than it’d originally appeared. James pretended not to notice.

“I’ll take my chances,” he rejected, looking down at John's hand and then back up at him.

John let go of James’ coat. “Suit yourself,” he shrugged, “but I’ve been caught in this type of weather enough to know that rain and below freezing temperatures do not make for a pleasant evening.”

James squinted at him. “It’s just water.”

“No. It’s frozen water actually,” John corrected. “And sleet hits the ground and turns into a thin blanket of ice. And ice and car tires do not get along so well. Trust me, I know. But if you’d like to endanger everyone in your path because you’re too impatient to wait a few minutes for it to pass and thaw, it’s your world. We’re all just living in it.”

“Christ, alright,” James conceded, shaking his head. “Just - stop talking.”

John took another pull from his cigarette and exhaled, “It’s also really fucking cold.”

James looked over at him in bewilderment, but John was too busy surveying the blackened sky to notice. Dark brown ringlets stuck to his tan skin as he pulled his hoodie over his head once again. He was handsome, James gave him that, but just because James was a sucker for dark hair and blue eyes didn’t make this particular man, who’d possessed them both, at the same time, any less of an ass.

“We should grab a pint after this,” John said absently.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me.”

John's brows clamped together, the accompanying silence prompting James to scoff in exasperation. “You don't perceive social cues very well, do you?”

John's expression didn't change. “I don't follow.”

“No shit.”

Another cloud of smoke wafted in the air between them, and John made no effort to fan it away. “Listen, I just asked you to have a bloody beer. It’s not exactly a marriage proposal.”

Then Flint’s brows were the ones creasing. “I don't need any new friends.”

“Who the fuck said anything about friendship? I just figured you could tell me why you’re here and not at the meeting across town where all the rich blokes go. Far better refreshments.”

“I’m not rich,” James defended, though he didn't understand why on earth he'd felt the need to do so.

“Well that’s a load of bollocks if I’ve ever heard one.” He found James’ gaze for a second before splitting his attention between James’ clothes and his own dwindling cigarette. “Oxford shirt, blazer, leather loafers, hell, I'd wager your coat costs more than everything I’m wearing combined.”

“Doesn’t exactly seem like that’d be difficult to achieve,” James mumbled without looking at him.

John flicked his cigarette into the softening rain, either unwilling or unable to offer a response. And James could have almost felt wrong for his callousness, perhaps, had the object of his ire not been such a little shit.

“Have a good night, John,” he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and stepping out into the night.

“Silver,” John ammended.

“Sorry?”

“Only my friends call me John. And since you’re so adamant about not needing any new friends, you can call me what the rest of my fans call me: Silver. Far more impersonal.”

The corner of Silver’s mouth quirked up to one side and his eyes narrowed slightly. Cocky little shit. James didn’t know why, but he felt his face beginning to mimic those actions and quickly looked down at his shoes. Was this man trying to flirt with him? It’d been so long he wasn’t entirely sure what it looked like anymore.

James wet his lips. “Have a good night, _Silver._ ”

“Well now that's just rude,” Silver called out. “You know my name but I can't know yours? And here I’d likened you to a gentleman.”  

James turned slowly, walking backwards as if to not lose any ground whilst toying with the idea of reluctantly entertaining this man for just a few seconds longer. "Flint," he finally offered after a mighty pause and a suppressed smirk.

Silver smiled, just barely, and nodded. “See you around, Flint,” he shouted as James walked away.

“Not if I can help it,” James called back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to just leave this here...
> 
> John is wearing [this](http://cdn12.lbstatic.nu/files/looks/large/2011/05/07/1252479_IMG_0033.jpg?1304810351) ^_^
> 
> And Mr. James "I'm not rich" (I'm only dressed like this because I came here from work and they have a dress code so stop attacking me) Flint is looking dapper in [zeess](http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/600x/a0/1f/ca/a01fca714d099c8bfa9ccbffabff91e5.jpg)
> 
> And yes, this fashion show will continue to happen because of reasons, ok? We good? Good.


	3. When you Feel so Tired but you Can't Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue music.

A sharp thump mocked the ends of James’ fingers as he pressed them firmly to his forehead. Thomas sat a cup of tea beside him, then came around the desk and started to rub James’ shoulders, a sympathetic twist to his mouth prompting James to smile up at him.

“I swear, Thomas, I waste hours of my life marking up my students’ flaccid theses and non sequitur textual ‘evidence’ - not to mention a brazen abuse of the comma that should be punishable by some sort of law - all so that they can take a cursory glance at the grade and then chuck the paper forever.” James’ smile was now a complete frown. “What fresh hell was it that tricked me into believing that becoming an educator was somehow better than opening up my own practice?”

Thomas squeezed and kneaded the tense muscles along the meeting of James’ shoulders and neck. “Why don't you take a break?”

James peeled off his glasses and set them beside his tea. “Thank you for this,” he said before grabbing the cup.

Orange and honey with a sliver of ginger was what he’d expected, but some foreign flowery blend washed over his tongue instead.

“It’s herbal,” Thomas explained, sensing James’ confusion. “Passionflower to be exact. It’ll help you relax.”

“I don’t like it,” James said immediately.

“You haven’t even given it a try.”

The white tea cup and its painted lavender accents found its way back onto the saucer before Thomas could finish his sentence. He sighed, a grin pulling his lips despite his critique: “You’re so finicky.”

“I simply like what I like,” James refuted, dropping his chin down and allowing Thomas to work his hands into the nape of his neck. “There was a time when men far greater than I would have considered that ‘having principles.’ ”

“And I admire that about you, truly,” Thomas humored, “but - would a sense of adventure kill you? Honestly, I doubt greater men considered the manner in which they took their tea to be on par with that which brought great kingdoms to their knees.”

A smile crept in, but he tucked it away just as quickly, not wanting to give his lover the satisfaction.

The house was still, save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace and the soft whir of chilly air trying its luck down the chimney flue. Miranda had done most of the decorating: long billowy curtains, deep browns, greens, and reds, scented candles in practically every room, rich oak and mahogany furnishings, golden framed art. Thomas hadn’t changed much of anything since she’d gone, perhaps out of a sense of comfort with her lingering aesthetic presence.

James didn’t mind bringing his work home either, but it usually meant he’d get less of it done, as Thomas was never really in much of a mood to leave him be for longer than a few hours.

Then, almost as if on cue, “Let’s go to a pub!” he cried out.

James snorted, “Sure.”

“No, really,” Thomas urged. “I can’t even remember the last time I’ve indulged in anything other than water and tea.”

“I can. It was Billy and Abigail’s wedding, and you were legless after two flutes of champagne.”

A soft smack against James’ shoulder was Thomas’ first reply. “I was not,” he snickered second.

James took his hand and gently pulled Thomas around his leather chair and into his lap. Thomas wrapped his arms around him easily, as if the habit had been formed many years ago. James stared at him. He loved it whenever those deep blue eyes lit up in excitement, glistening like a cobalt sea reflects a summer breeze.

“We have brandy and cognac in the study, not to mention the collection of wines in the cellar with copious amounts of dust on them. Why on earth would you want to trade that for obnoxious amounts of noise and poorly filtered cigarette smoke?”

“Perhaps because we have not been out on the town in so long, I’m beginning to forget what it looks like,” Thomas exaggerated. “We should be amongst the people!”

James smoothed a strand of Thomas’ hair across his forehead. “You’re my people,” he said softly, tucking his fingers beneath his chin and pulling him into a kiss.

“No, no, no.” Thomas squirmed in James’ arms. “You’re not getting off that easily. Get dressed. We’ll play later.”

 

 

 _The Colonial Dawn Tavern_ was not exactly charming, but it made his partner happy, and for now, that was enough for James. The black button down which Thomas wore had three of the buttons undone from the collar down and the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, which officially meant he was ‘letting loose.’ By the same token, James was no better. Donning a tan sport coat and navy jeans with a Jim Morrison t shirt was his best attempt at ‘casual,’ but Thomas had told him once that the color combination brought out the green in James’ eyes, so yet again, that had been enough.

James eyed him adoringly from across the table as Thomas tapped the edge of it with his index fingers and nodded along with the pub’s dreadful excuse for rock music. He patiently sipped his Scotch.

“This is great!” Thomas beamed.

James couldn't hear him, but he could just make out his words by the way Thomas’ lips wrapped around them. And as long as he was happy…

There was a point in the beginning of the relationship, just after Miranda passed, when James thought he’d never see that smile grace Thomas’ face again. Theirs was a bond forged out of necessity, both pain and guilt their catalysts, their first kiss forming in desperation for something to cling to other than grief. James loved him deeply. And he loved Miranda. But Thomas knew nothing of the latter.

A serrated squawk of feedback reverberated throughout the busy room as a shadowy figure tapped thrice at the top of a microphone. Heads collectively turned toward the stage. The lights slowly flared to a dull version of vermillion.

“We’re _The Gallows_ and this is _Misery_ ,” announced a red-haired woman in an aggressive Irish accent.

A gritty guitar riff jumped from her bass along with the hoots of a group of young women sitting closer to the stage. Drum beats joined in double time and before James could make a joke about this not being folk music, the pub was filled with the collective musical angst of tattooed young people in tattered clothing.

The frontwoman, a slender thing with most of her hair in her face, peeked out from beneath the brim of a slightly bent hat as the lights blazed to their fullest potential in accommodation of her shrill grunts. At one point, when she wasn't violently assaulting her guitar, she kicked over the mic stand and shouted incoherently.

James cringed and looked over at Thomas but he was all smiles, hopefully enjoying the spectacle of it more so than the acoustic integrity. And suddenly, James needed another Scotch.

He could have very well ordered one from the table, but James decided to walk all the way to the bar in the farthest corner of the pub instead, in hopes of finding even the slightest relief from the volume of the noise. As he waited for his drink, he picked up a flyer from the pile on the bar and studied the members of the horrid band, making a mental note to never visit wherever they’d be playing again.

He squinted.

There, on a stool just behind the lead singer (if you could even call what she did actual singing) was the man he’d met at his N.A. meeting just a few nights before.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he complained under his breath.

He nodded in thanks at the bartender for setting down his drink, palmed it and turned as if someone had just insulted him, putting his glass to his lips and glaring at the stage. He gritted his teeth. Whether he was annoyed at how small the world was or surprised by how strong the Scotch was remained a mystery.

James made his way back to the table, keeping his eyes fixed on the little shit for the duration. He was wearing a beige knit jumper and suede shoes in the same shade; between the two, a pair of dark brown pants with hot and light pink flowers parodying any actual fashion sense. The bowler hat atop his loose and fluffy curls was a nice touch, though James would never admit it. And anyone who wore a pair of shades indoors was a proper nitwit anyway.

Once again, he looked absolutely ridiculous. And once again, James could not take his eyes off of him.

He didn’t quite know why he’d become so instantly irritated by the mere presence of the man, but he was in no position to fight it. He simply didn’t like him. But also, he liked him - or, at the very least he found him vaguely intriguing. And that was saying an awful lot because, quite frankly, James hated everyone. Silver was not fucking worthy of being the exception.

It must have been his need for a proper case study. It’d been so long since he’d gotten his Hannibal Lecter on, dissecting a person down to their bare bones and eating their brain for fun. Of course, the analogy he was so fond of was simply a crude euphemism for the joys he felt toward being the smartest person in whatever room he happened to be in. Yet, this man, this curly-haired disaster rapping at his chamber door, he was not the type of person James willingly analyzed. The desire to parse through and reconsider his concrete analyses of him was honestly an insult to his own intelligence.

When he got back to the table Thomas smiled at him and reached over to grab his hand. James gripped back tightly, looking on as Silver stroked the strings of his guitar with the kind of confidence that should have warranted better music. James didn’t say anything for the remainder of the show.

Three whiskeys and a headache later, “Are you ready to go?”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright. I’m just gonna head to the loo,” he slurred, “and then… then we can go.”

James finished his final drink while Thomas excused himself, then crunched hotly at the leftover ice cubes. When the last chord was struck and the lights went down, the volume returned to an almost respectable level, notwithstanding the lingering applause and cheers. As soon as he’d run out of ice cubes, James made to pay the tab.

“It’s already been taken care of, sir,” said the young woman tending his table.

James’ forehead creased in confusion. He surveyed the room for Thomas assuming he’d taken the initiative, but the young woman gestured toward the bar behind him with a slight lift of her chin. James’ gaze flew over to Silver so quickly that he had to do a doubletake.

Silver simply raised his bottle of beer with a subtle nod, then continued speaking with a girl who looked almost too young to be drinking alcohol of any kind. He smiled at her and played with her fingers as she giggled at something he said.

“Ready to go?” Thomas asked, breaking James out of his spell.

James nodded vehemently.

Thomas was three sheets to the wind by then, but James found him undeniably cute that way. He clutched him by the hip as Thomas rested his head atop his shoulder and sighed.

“I had fun,” he cooed, a pleasant grin spread out across his face.

And then, Thomas saw the band sitting at the bar.

Fuck.

“You all were awesome,” he called out.

James couldn’t be sure, but he was willing to bet money that the heat he soon felt had turned him a distinct shade of red in just about two seconds flat. Silver smiled graciously and raised his pint in thanks. James could _not_ look at him.

Thomas herded James toward them, despite his best efforts to deter him.

“And you,” Thomas praised, “you are absolutely magnificent. So much _raw_ energy. What is your name?”

The red-haired woman simply stared.

“Her name is Anne,” a man with a distinctively curled mustache and prominent sideburns answered for her. “She’s rather shy. Some would dare say rude even.”

Anne shot him a look which said she’d make him pay for that later, then lodged her glare into the bottom of her glass just as quickly. “Thank you,” she said finally, fingers fumbling with the sleeves of her oversized sweater.

"I'm Calico Jack, the manager of this merry band of misfits." He shook Thomas' hand then James'. “And this is the eye-candy," he teased, a quick turn of his head acknowledging the man sitting at the bar behind him.

Thomas extended his hand to shake the drummer’s, a tall, muscular man with long hair, sharp features, and a very deep voice. “Vane,” the man corrected, his knife-like eyes cutting toward Jack's as if he were far less than amused. "Fuck you, Jack."

The girl hanging on Silver’s side like a well fed sloth played in his hair idly as if she had absolutely no interest in the interactions taking place. “And I’m John Silver,” the curly demon said cooly, shaking Thomas’ hand.

For some reason, James became keenly aware of John's brief contact with Thomas. He almost counted the milliseconds that their hands were touching, feeling a sudden spike of - something. It might have been a protective instinct, but that didn't make sense; it wasn't like he was afraid of Silver.

“I’m Thomas and this is my James.”

James all but flinched at the sound of his name. He looked up at Silver for half a second. It was just enough time to catch an eyebrow raise.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you,” Silver said smoothly. “You both should stay and have a drink with us. On me.”

“We’d love--”

“No,” James asserted. Thomas fixed him with a perplexed expression. “It’s late, Thomas.”

“Why, it’s only half past 12,” he replied after a glance at his watch. He looked to Silver, patting James’ chest lovingly. “He can be such a killjoy.”

Silver laughed into his drink. “I’m aware,” he let slip.

James scowled.

“Oh,” said Thomas, taken aback. “Do you know each other?”

All the blood rushed to James chest.

“Not really. We’re in the same--”

“Class,” James interjected, a quick clearing of a throat that didn't really need any clearing. “He’s my student.”

“I’m his student,” Silver repeated immediately, finally catching the fucking drift.

James thought it might be the alcohol that made Silver so slow on the uptake, but he had a sneaking suspicion he was giving him far too much credit.

“What a small world!” said Thomas.

 _Too fucking small_.

“What degree are you working toward?”

“Perhaps,” James said, squeezing Thomas softly but firmly, “we shouldn’t ruin his night with talks of coursework. I’m sure he’d like to get back to celebrating a great performance.”

“Of course,” Thomas conceded, placing a hand on James’ cheek. “Where are my manners?”

James met Silver’s eyes nervously, but if Silver actually noticed his embarrassment, he did a good job of not letting on.

“Well, we’re off to the after party. You’re more than welcome to join,” Silver added, pointing the head of his beer bottle at them before upturning it against his lips.

“Oh, no,” Thomas declined. “James is right. We should be getting home. But it was a pleasure to meet you all.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Silver returned with a nod. 

One might almost mistake him for a gentleman.

“Goodnight,” Thomas said with a toothy smile.

James started to thank Silver for paying for their drinks, but Thomas turned to leave and ran smack into a fellow almost twice his width and half a meter taller. “Watch where the fuck you’re goin’ ya bloody poof” whipped through the air behind him.

James swung around slowly, as if he wasn’t quite certain he’d heard it correctly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Thomas tried. He turned and put a hand on James’ elbow. “Come on, darling.”

James felt his blood thrumming in his ears almost instantaneously - though, "What did you just call him?" came out far more calmly than it probably should have.

“Easy, friend,” Jack stepped in, putting a hand on the offending man's shoulder. “It was an honest mistake.”

“Who the fuck is talkin’ to you?” the bald man questioned, jerking his arm away. “This is between me and the shirt-lifters. Mind your fucking--”

“James, no!”

Heat. Skin. Blood. Soft cartilage crinkled under the force of James’ fist. A vague feeling of weightlessness emboldened a bitter rage. Good sense escaped him. _All men have it_ , his superior officer in the Royal Navy had told him once.

_That thing which arises in you when passions are aroused._

_All men have it, but yours… yours is different._

_Darker. Wilder._  

_When exposed to extremes, I cannot imagine what it is capable of, and of greater concern, I’m not sure you do either._

James grabbed a hold of the bully's shirt as blood spirted from the man's nose. "You want to say that again?" he interrogated, pushing him into a nearby support beam. The man wrapped his hands around James neck and pushed him back into the bar, but then, out of nowhere, the sound of shattered glass and a trickle of blood from atop a bald head. Silver had broken his beer bottle over the larger man's skull. The giant fell soon after and it was thereabouts when the kicks started.

James only bothered to kick the man once, a swift one right in the ribs to make sure he knew he'd better stay down, but Silver… Silver stomped the man in the face - repeatedly - like a man completely possessed. 

It was over as quickly as it began, with both he and Silver being unceremoniously pitched out of the back doors by security. The larger man was probably unconscious or presumed too heavy to lift. James ran a palm across his eyebrow, short of breath and bloody. He looked at his hands in confusion, dabbing his face for the source of the blood.

“It’s not yours,” panted Silver, just as out of breath as James was.

A glance to the side revealed a slightly disheveled John Silver, hair flung over to one side of his head, shirt blood spattered and off kilter, and pant leg ruffled upward, caught on something below his knee. It was then when James realized the reason behind Silver’s distinctive walk. How could he have possibly missed that?

Silver looked around at the sidewalk. “Fuck,” he said under his breath. “I really hope Anne grabs my fucking hat.”

James studied him for a few seconds before succumbing to a fit of laughter so deep that Silver couldn’t help but join in. “You are fucking ridiculous, do you know that?”

Silver snorted. “I’ve been called worse things by better people.”

James opened his mouth to speak again but his skin flushed warm and a signal flare rose hotly into his groin as Silver removed his bloodied pullover, pulling it forward over the back of his head. His thin white undershirt practically came off with it, revealing much more than just static cling. James didn't notice the tattoos. He didn't.

“Those things he said,” Silver started, curls flopping back down around his face as he poked his head back through the opening of his tshirt, “they weren’t right. And I, for one, completely understand why you socked the bastard. No one should be ashamed of who they love.”

James’ brow furrowed. “Do I seem ashamed?” he asked without thinking, and instantly wished he could take it back.

Silver sighed short and smiled. “I don’t pretend to know what the fuck you are,” he explained, gathering his sweater into a ball with the bloody side facing in. “About the only thing I know is that I certainly used to be. And it took me a long fucking time not to be anymore.”

He shook his head, his shoulders and chest rising against the pressure of thoughts perhaps too personal for their inchoate acquaintance. James looked him over quietly. Maybe he wasn’t just a little shit afterall.

“I have to find Thomas,” James remembered. “He’s probably terrified.”

“He might be waiting for you in the front of the building. If you cut through that alley there you can make it in a minute or so.

“Thank you,” he said after a short pause.

Silver nodded and finished a deep breath. “Have a good night, Flint,” he said, his expression more serious right then than James had ever witnessed it before.

“James,” he heard himself say.

Silver pressed his lips into a thin line and extended his hand.

James shook it.

It shook him.

He pulled away with the hope that Silver had not noticed the tremble.

"Goodnight, James," he said, either completely oblivious to it or choosing to completely ignore it.

"Goodnight, John," said James, yet again without thinking.

James started toward the alley but he didn’t hear any footsteps making headway in the opposite direction. And sure enough…

"Oi," John called to him. James turned. John cocked his head to the side, the pensive visage of the previous moment melting into a rascally half-grin. “Did we just become friends?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silver is wearing [this](http://iv1.lisimg.com/image/6502184/656full-luke-arnold.jpg). And no, that is definitely NOT clothing befitting of a stereotypical punk rocker, but Silver is Silver and he does wtf he wants. And punk is about individuality goddamnit. Annnnnd I am a self indulgent bastard who gives no fucks. FIGHT ME. (งಠ_ಠ)ง  
>    
> Also, James lives in [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/80/8b/9a/808b9aee5653ff01363c08b97760591e.jpg) general vicinity of clothing land. 
> 
> Because visuals are important.
> 
> ALSO.
> 
> There is an awesome band out of Britain called "Gallows" and [this](https://youtu.be/UZvMNNSvK2A?t=1m32s) is the song that "The Gallows" opens with in their performance. If you can imagine another skinny, aggressive little redhead with an equally abrasive voice performing it, you and I are on the same page here lol. Welcome to my mind. (My ginger love, Frank, left Gallows in 2011 *sad face*)


	4. Stuck in Reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter John Silver's demons.

**_Anne_ ** _: You’re a goddamn shit for brains_

 **_Anne_ ** _: But I got your hat_

 **_Anne_ ** _: And Jack says he’s gonna rip you a new one for fucking up our only steady gig_

John read his phone screen with only one eye opened, the harsh glare of blue light tricking his mind into believing it might be time to face another day. It was only 3am though, so he pulled a pillow over his head before he got any more bright ideas.

It wasn’t that he was afraid of Jack, or _Calico_ as he preferred to be called within the circuit, John just didn’t want to be bothered. He’d skipped the after party and opted for a bath and a good night’s rest instead. Also, he’d known that Jack would be there, and the man had the kind of relationship with words that would make a deaf man grateful for the privilege. John’s leg still ached after the fight and he was nursing a small slit across the back of his hand from where the bottle he’d shattered over that man’s head had taken its weary revenge on him. The last fucking thing he wanted to deal with was Jack chastising him over a gig that they could replace within a matter of days.

His phone buzzed beside him.

 **_Anne_ ** _: And that girl is looking for you. The one with the big tits._

 **_John_ ** _: You can have her_

 **_Anne_ ** _: Not my type. Too prissy_

John smirked.

 

 

The yellow-orange nothingness behind his eyelids was courtesy of the insufferable sun being an outright asshole and beaming directly into John’s eye from a small sliver between his curtains. John groaned and repositioned his head, stretching his arms and legs like a beached starfish trying to find the sea again. He rolled out of bed and grabbed his crutches to make for his bathroom.

 “Rough night?” a voice attacked.

John almost jumped out of his skin, turning so quickly he knocked over a lamp with the end of his swinging crutch. “Bloody hell! What the fuck are you doing here, Jack?”

Jack grinned, but it wasn’t the kind of grin that someone offers when they’re happy. “You just cost me a shit ton of money, John. Where else do you presume I should be?”

 He got up from John’s kitchen table and returned the lamp to it’s proper perch.

 John shook his head, heading for the bathroom once again. “I gave you that key for emergencies only,” he said, placing his crutch against the wall and lifting the toilet seat.

“I believe this constitutes one, don’t you?”

“We still have every third Thursday at _The Royal Lion_ Jack. And every other Saturday--”

“At _The Ranger_ , yes, I am aware. I _am_ the one who makes these things happen after all,” Jack reminded, although John was pretty sure Jack knew that he didn’t need reminding. “I am also the one who shops around your demos, makes sure you don’t get the shitty set times, and keeps your ticket prices at a healthy medium. So I’d just like to know, John, truthfully, what is it about me that could possibly make you hate me so fucking much?!”

 Jack had a flair for dramatics that John almost appreciated, as it got the job done when club promoters and owners tried to give them the shorter end of the stick. It was about the music, unmistakably so, but without Jack they’d probably still be playing in the dumps of Brixton or Hackney to groups of 30 people or less. Jack had gotten them a weekly gig at one of the most popular pubs in London, and John was nothing if not grateful, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with Jack whenever he got in a mood.

 “What the fuck happened?” Jack demanded.

John flushed the toilet, upended a bottle of mouthwash, gargled and spit before he answered. “It was just a misunderstanding. I’ll go down to ‘ _The Dawn_ today and apologize to Hal.

“Don’t you think I’ve already done that?”

”Then I’ll do it again,” John insisted. “Come on, we’ve made him a shit load of money. That place didn’t see half those numbers before we started playing there.”

“Oh, what the fuck do you know about Hal Gates’ numbers?”

John opened his medicine cabinet and fetched his toothpaste. “A lot more than you think. I’m fucking his bar manager.”

“Christ, of course you are,” Jack mumbled. “Is that girl even of consenting age?”

John snorted. “Fuck, Jack. You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm, mate.”

 Silence. Normally a welcomed presence, but with Jack it was only a breeding ground for more sharp and peppery words. John brushed his teeth; waited. When no further words emerged he set his hands on either side of his sink and leaned in a bit to look at himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes were becoming a permanence now.

A small pill bottle rested at the top corner of the sink. John thought about how long the next two weeks would be, how he’d have to settle for Ibuprofens to take the sting out of being a cripple. They should honestly give him more pills in his prescription. He was always in pain. It really wasn’t right.

He twisted off the top of the bottle and let the final Percocet fall into the palm of his hand, thinking that he should probably save it to be able to sleep that night, but ultimately swallowing it because - just because.

 He made his way to the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?”

“No, I don’t want - John, this has got to stop,” Jack advised. “This is your fourth fight in as many weeks and I fear...”

John turned to him with a look of puzzlement from across the kitchen island. “I don’t know what you mean, Jack. I’m not a troublemaker. The man simply got out of line and I took care of it. If you ask me, I did Hal a service,” he reasoned. “One less homophobic prick mucking up his _fine_ establishment.”

Jack stood there with his mouth agape, opening and shutting it like a fish out of water. “You stomped a man’s face in, John,” he said after a long pause. “It’ll be a fucking miracle if he doesn’t press charges.”

“And admit to getting his arse kicked by a couple of queers? Somehow I _highly_ doubt it.”

 Jack crossed his arms while John busied himself with the task of his coffee. He wasn't worried. Jack was family, the band was family, and whatever problems that would arise would be handled _as a family_. They'd get through it. They always did.

 “John, I can't exactly market a band with a volatile lead guitarist,” Jack said plainly.

“Well, that's basically a prerequisite for the rock and roll lifestyle, innit?” John joked without looking. “Barely anyone involved has all their marbles.”

“Quite… except, you’re not a rock star, John. At this stage in the game you are, for lack of a better term, a liability.”

 The word packed a wallop John wasn’t ready for. His heart thumped harder in his chest, or maybe he’d only just recognized it on account of the Percocet on an empty stomach.

 “Is that what you think?” he asked from over his shoulder.

 For once, Jack didn’t have a snappy comeback. He took a seat at the table instead, rubbed his forehead with a sigh.

 “I can appreciate how hard this is for--”

“Can you?!” John snapped, turning as far around as he could without moving his crutches.

“I can, John. I do. I was there. I know what you went through. Don’t fucking forget who I am here.”

“Oh, I don’t think _I_ am the one who’s forgetting,” John said as he turned around to face him.

Jack blinked up from the table and hesitantly met John’s glare. “I was going to wait until we were all together to tell you... but we’ve been scouted.”

John’s eyes grew wide and his body tensed with the implications of it all.

“A magazine,” Jack clarified. “They want to do a story on us for their ‘unsigned hype’ section. It would be a few issues from now, but they want to send a photographer out to cover our next few performances.”

 John swallowed and clutched his crutches, feeling like he was falling in place. “Holy shit,” he whispered, eyes darting around the table top.

 “We cannot afford any bad press,” Jack warned, his voice thick with calls for prevention.

John slowly broke into a smile. “This is it, Jack,” he rejoiced, coming around the kitchen island. “This is what the fuck we’ve been waiting for!”

“No - John--” Jack held out his hands as if he could somehow stifle the swelling excitement. “John, I’m telling you this for a reason.”

 John hobbled right up to Jack and flung an arm around him, losing one of his crutches in the process. “You did it, you fucking snob!” he laughed, shaking one of Jack’s shoulders. “You really made it happen.”

 Jack nodded and grabbed John’s arms in order to reestablish the space necessary to look into his eyes. “This is a pivotal moment for us,” he started. “The course is set and the stakes are high; higher than they’ve ever been.”

John nodded eagerly, like a hungry child finally receiving a piece of the pie that has been cooling upon the window ledge forever.

“We simply cannot afford _any_ bad press,” he repeated.

“I understand. I am to be on my best behavior,” John grinned, a mock salute sailing over a childlike vigor.

“I’m afraid it’s more than that.”

The light in John’s eyes dimmed, giving way to a bit of confusion.

“This is your final strike, John. If any more trouble should befall you, I’m afraid... I’m going to have to replace you.”

 A hollow carving which once housed a beating heart caved in. Replace? John started this fucking band. Well, not exactly _started_ it, but they surely hadn’t earned the right to even call themselves a band before he joined them. Their guitarist was mediocre. Their drummer far too heavy on the cymbals. Hell, Anne didn’t even know how to play the bass until John taught her. She’d still be screaming in her garage amidst fragmented arpeggios and a gross overuse of the whammy bar had he not decided to take up the mantle. Replace? Who the fuck did Jack think he was talking to?

 “You can’t be serious.”

“John--”

“No, Jack. You can’t be fucking serious. You aren’t that bloody stupid,” John challenged, punctuating his insistence with quick and pointed nods. But his efforts to intimidate Jack seemed to do him a disservice.

Jack bent to retrieve John’s crutch and held it in between them like a much needed buffer. “I know how important you are to this band. And please believe me when I say, wholeheartedly, I do _not_ want that to happen. But.”

John snatched his crutch and tucked it back under his arm. “Do Charles and Anne know about this?”

“I haven’t discussed it with them. This is solely _my_ decision.”

“Like hell it is!” John shouted. “You don’t get to make a decision like that on your own.”

Jack took a well deserved breath but John only grew angrier with the pause and the immediately annoying sound of his coffeemaker in the surrounding silence.

“Look, I have given this much thought and I am fully aware that this band’s chances of making it will be severely diminished if not completely eviscerated without _your_ presence, John. You command that room. The women love you. And Anne… Anne can actually let loose because she knows you’re right behind her. She knows you’ve got her back. Trust me, I understand what you bring to the table, but it is my responsibility to protect her from the other side of it. I simply cannot allow you to bring her down with you.”

The whir of central heating kicked on and split the abounding stare between them. This wasn’t personal; he tried to tell himself that. But the thought of being cast aside because he jeopardized the money was now a splinter in John’s mind. He hadn’t been able to hold down a job since he’d lost his leg, and despite the fact that he was unable to perform the manual labor most menial jobs required, he also hadn’t the patience to sit at a desk for hours on end. He’d tried - twice - and both times had invariably ended with blood and law enforcement.

The antidepressants they’d given him for his PTSD did not do much aside from dull his senses and creativity, making him extra tired whenever they mixed with the painkillers as well. So John barely took them. He’d found that having an artistic outlet instead actually did wonders for his existential dread, and even his night terrors for the most part. He’d found a reason to keep going. And he was finally beginning to realize that you only needed three things to be happy: something to do, someone to love, and something to look forward to. Two outta three was better than he’d ever had before.

Realistically, this band was all John had, was all John was good at anymore, was all that paid his bills and kept him from sleeping on the streets again, hunting for a meal, or a new vein for the sharp end of a needle. The ominous thoughts of his previous life had never truly disappeared, not with this blatant consequence at the center of his current life. But John found solace in the knowledge that he was no longer alone in any of it. Jack _had_ been there, that much was true, and John hated to think Jack capable of betraying him for some monetary gain, but John just couldn't allow him the chance to take all that still made him good either. It didn’t fucking matter that the man had saved John's life if he was just going to come right back around and snatch it up from him.

John grabbed a handful of Jack’s shirt without fully meaning to, but he commited nevertheless. “You told me we were family,” he reminded. “Family, Jack. Does that mean anything to you, you fucking worm?”

Jack swallowed. “Anne’s my family too.”

The muscles around John’s eyes twitched.

“Look at yourself, John,” said Jack, almost all intonation gone from his voice. “You get angry at the drop of a hat. Have you even been taking your medication?”

John let go of Jack’s shirt and turned to make his way back toward his bed.

“I’m tired,” he told him. “You can let yourself out.”

 

**oo**

 

There were some things that could be skimped upon - white bread, rice, pasta noodles - but pastries and tea would never make it anywhere near that list. John honestly only went for this particular part of the festivity. He truly had no shame, scarfing down more than his fair share of macaroons before he began to make himself some tea.

The blonde woman leading the group was slightly intimidating. She commanded a kind of authority which John didn’t feel with Max, although the woman could still send a prickle across his shoulders should ever she so choose. Perhaps it was her vampire accent, or her dark, threatening eyeliner habits.

The blonde also wore a permanent look of calculation, as if she were constantly analyzing her surroundings. That didn’t bode well for John, so he would never visit more than once a month - and only on the day when they were serving the macaroons.

“You’re rather early,” she acknowledged. John swallowed, a sudden and rather curious urge not to chew so obviously creeping in. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before. I’m Eleanor.”

John shook her hand. “Silver,” he said.

She smiled politely, and John was half relieved she had no recollection of his past pastry smuggling ways.

“Well, the others don’t normally begin to show up for another 15 minutes or so, but you’re welcome to grab some literature while you wait. I’ll just be in the next room.”

She disappeared as quickly as she’d emerged, but the density didn’t leave with her. John took to focusing on his tea, still feeling funny about the whole thing. He made a cup and let it steep, anxiety building in his chest and shoulders. He quickly decided that he wouldn’t stay this time. He didn’t know why but his gut told him that it was time to go, and his gut was never wrong.

Turning in haste, he ran right into someone else making their way to the refreshments.

“Shit,” he cried, crushing his styrofoam cup between himself and a walking brick wall. The hot tea burned his hand.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

John looked up at James. “What… what the hell are you doing here?” he asked, setting the mangled cup down on the table and reaching for some napkins.

James did the same. “I was just about to ask _you_ that,” he said, wiping his own shirt.

John sucked tea droplets from his fingers. “I told you this is where the rich blokes go. They have the best pastries.”

James laughed, but there was something hollow about it, something lacking, and John could usually sense a thing like that, but James happened to be a remarkably difficult person to read despite John’s unparalleled knack for it. About all he’d gotten from the man was that he took himself too seriously. John didn’t need any new friends either, but Christ, this man was practically begging for one.

“How are you?” James asked.

“Oh, great. Just great. Being covered in tea is actually a favorite pastime of mine.”

James smiled and handed him another napkin in lieu of words, and John finally felt that random sense of urgency deflating back into the hyperawareness he was far more accustomed to in life. Anxiety was funny that way. Sometimes all it took was a warm smile to melt the chill of it away.


	5. And the Tears come Streaming Down your Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow pan to James Flint's face as John Silver shares his demons

_When at the end of the road we find that we can no longer function as human beings, either with or without drugs, we all face the same dilemma. What is there left to do? There seems to be this alternative: either go on as best we can to the bitter ends - jails, institutions, or death - or find a new way to live. In years gone by, very few addicts ever had the last choice._

_~N.A. White Booklet_

 

“I’d like to focus on coping mechanisms today,” Eleanor began, shutting the booklet and setting it on her lap. “Last session we discussed ways in which our disease provokes us to make excuses for less than desireable behavior. I wonder if you all would be alright with expanding on that idea; perhaps sharing with the group ways in which you are now taking personal inventory and making the _choice_ to hold yourselves accountable.”

“You mean, _aside_ from being here?” a man in a shabby blue hat asked, a sardonic edge to his already annoying voice.

“Ideally, yes,” Eleanor combatted.

The same man leaned back in his seat and let his head fall sideways in contemplation. “Well, I’m here twice a week,” he returned with a shrug, flipping his palms up in his lap. “And my probation officer makes me piss into a cup once a week. I don’t think I have very much choice in the matter.”

James studied Eleanor, her practiced calm demeanor, the subtle flush of her cheek, the way she smoothed her skirt and sat up straight when challenged, always finding something to do with her hands whenever they’d start to fidget and give her away. Generalized Anxiety Disorder. No… Social Phobia. Underlying. Moderate.

Shit. He was getting rusty.

It was certainly worth noting that those who led NA meetings were all in recovery themselves, and it was for that reason that James briefly found himself wondering what her drug of choice was. He wondered what her particular coping mechanisms were. He wondered what would compel someone like her to willfully _choose_ to deal with knobheads like this man every day. Then, his unintentional analysis of the target was interrupted by her voice.

“I believe there’s always a choice,” she replied softly. “Indeed, as addicts, we are powerless over our addictions, but we can choose to seek help. You could have chosen not to come to this meeting; you could have chosen not to take the drug tests. You could have chose--”

“That’s all piss and wind,” blue hat disregarded with a wave of a hand. “It’s not a bloody choice to be here. If I don’t come I’ll just get nicked again.

John shifted in a chair a quarter of the way around the circle. He was taking off his jacket, and James was instantly drawn in by the dark sleeve of art that covered his left arm. It’d been too dim in the moonlit alley the last time he’d seen him, but here under the fluorescent lights John’s arm boasted brilliant reds, blacks, and browns from what appeared to be roses and twisted tree branches. John leaned forward in his seat and rested his forearms on his thighs, revealing an inch more of his tattoos from beneath his black shirtsleeve. Words. James found himself trying to make out the bottom curls of the cursive letters before he’d realized he was staring.

“Sounds like a choice to me,” John spoke, giving James an excuse to look at him. “You’re just unwilling to deal with the consequences of it.”

Eleanor’s eyes landed on John with the kind of snap that a schoolmarm’s ruler made when the class was getting too rowdy. “We don’t really permit crosstalk within the group.”

“Like I said, that’s not a bloody choice,” blue hat reiterated. “Come here or go back in the clink? Those ain’t options.”

John lifted his eyebrows, a slight pout in his lips and tilt of his head communicating his disagreement before his words did. “Depends on who you ask.”

“Alright then. I’m askin’ _you_.”

"Well, if you ask me--”

“Gentlemen,” Eleanor tried.

“--I’d say I _have_ chosen to get nicked - and on more than one occasion.”

A woman across from James made a face in complete confusion. She asked John why anyone would _choose_ to be arrested before the man John was originally speaking with could manage to inquire himself.

John looked down at his hands and started rubbing some imaginary smudge off of his palm with his thumb. “When your options are ‘spend another night on the street’ or ‘have a warm place to sleep with a running toilet,’ the choice really isn’t that hard.”

He looked up briefly, eyes darting across three different faces in only a second before blinking down and refocusing on the imaginary smudge. Something burrowed into the space between James’ chest and belly. John wasn’t being manipulative; he wasn’t trying to garner any sympathy or praise. He was simply being candid. And the obvious discomfort he felt with such forthrightness had even seemed to catch him by surprise.

“Were you hooked then?” another woman questioned after a slight hesitation.

John didn’t look up this time. He merely pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and nodded.

“Five years,” he slowly admitted. “Five fucking years… eating out of trash bins, sleeping in abandoned buildings; waking up any and everywhere. After I got too old for foster care nobody gave a fuck what happened to me. Shit, _I_ didn’t even give a fuck what happened to me.”

His voice was light and barely above a whisper by the end of his thought, as if he were coming to the realization while the very words were leaving his mouth.

“What was your poison?” another man asked.

James watched intently as John sat back in his seat and rested his inked arm over the back of the empty chair beside him, body language contradicting what eyes had tried and failed to hide. He was feigning confidence.

“Heroin,” he faintly confessed.

Eleanor readjusted in her seat, clutching the end of the booklet in her lap like the courage to inquire somehow rested in its pages. “May I ask how long you’ve been clean, Silver?”

“Clean? Fuck, I’m still not _clean_ ,” he answered. “But it’s been, what, 8 years since I kicked - and honestly, there hasn’t been a single day where I haven’t thought about it.”

She nodded, along with a handful of others, all solemn faces and thoughtful postures littering the room.

“Recovery is almost a miracle,” she said, “because it’s not just your body that screams for the drug. Your brain wants it too. The emotional pain can feel unbearable.”

John blinked at the floor, the looming silence ushering in a static air of anticipation. “To me,” he began, rubbing the top of his thigh in what came off to James as a feeble attempt at comfort, “being an addict is kind of like being in an abusive relationship. If you ever do get the strength to leave, you swear that for all they’ve put you through you’ll never want anything to do with them again - but there’s always that part of you that misses the good times, yeah? You miss the warmth, the euphoria… And then one day you just - you find yourself sitting on the couch alone in your apartment wondering if you’d both get along now.”

By now every eye in the room was on him, and James began to realize what it was about the man that’d inexplicably caused him to follow suit. John had a presence. He was genuine. He was relatable. He had a way with words that invited trust. Something about him made you want to know him, made you care what he thought, and James felt inclined to believe that none of it was even intentional. John was, quite simply, a hard man not to like.

“That’s why I come to these meetings,” John said, once again leaning forward, “to remind myself that I’m really only just one hit away from where I used to be. And every single day I make the choice not to give into the fiction that these fucking demons spin whenever I'm sitting on that couch. I believe that I’ve _more_ than earned that choice.”

He turned his head to address the man in the blue hat, frustration brimming at his edges. “So when you sit there and you say that you don’t have a choice, you shit on every single one of us who gets up every day and makes it - not because somebody else tells us to, not because we’re afraid of the consequences, shit, not even because we fucking want to, but simply because we _can…_ and because we believe that there’s always a choice in _this_ life, bruv. There’s not a goddamn thing that’s inevitable here.”

The man in the blue hat yielded, eyes shifting into uncertainty.

“Excuse me,” John said, rising to his feet then leaving the room.

The hawkish draft he left behind felt as if it might shatter should anyone else dare speak into it, so no one did. After about a minute or so, Eleanor began to fumble with her booklet, no doubt searching for a way to get past the heavy moment John had laid to rest at her feet. James stared at the door which permitted John’s absence. How could someone so magnetic, so authentic, so fascinating be so beautifully and relentlessly tormented? He could have almost felt sorry for the man had he not felt completely enthralled by him.

He settled his stare on John’s empty seat and realized he’d left his jacket behind. James decided at once he should bring it to him. It _was_ highly unlikely that John would be returning, after all. He’d certainly need his jacket, right?

He made it to the front lobby just in time to find John patting his torso and beginning to turn back in apparent discovery of the missing article. James held it out to him.

“Fuck - thank you,” he sighed in visible relief. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

He reached deep into one of the pockets and pulled out his pack. James could do nothing but watch him in full awareness of his own wonderment. He thought for a second as John fished out a cigarette and placed it deftly to his lips, then lifted his eyes to meet his.

James exhaled. “About that pint…”

 

 

An arm of smoke extended its hand and greeted James before he reached the entrance of the seedy bar which John supposedly frequented. It should have rightfully bothered him. The occasional cigar with his whiskey didn’t exactly make him an enthusiast, but the smoke only burned his eyes for the first five minutes, and by the time the thick haze had begun to stick to his hair and his green sweater he had already downed his first Glenlivet.

It must have been one of the only places left in England which had yet to implement an indoor smoking ban, and John certainly seemed to relish the fact. “They’re fucking pansies, man,” he complained of the government. “The whole lot of them.”

James laughed. “It’s a matter of public health. And I don’t think not wanting to inhale another person’s carbon monoxide makes one a - what did you call it?”

“A pansy.”

“Right.”

“Maybe so… but I miss the days when punk ruled the underground and you couldn’t visit a club without your eyes and ears being burned right out of your goddamn head.”

John inhaled his cigarette then took a quick sip of his beer before blowing a whisk of smoke through his nose. James followed the swirl of it until it disappeared, prompting John to look at him curiously.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” James asked.

“ _That_.” John pointed toward James’ forehead. “That funny thing you do with your eyebrows when you’re deciding whether or not you should say what you’re thinking. You don’t have to do that with me.”

James’ reached for his drink, lips curling to one side just before taking a sip. “Well… I was just thinking about everything that’s in cigarette smoke. Formaldehyde, cyanide, ammonia--”

“Wh--are you a bloody chemist now?” John chuckled. “Are you fucking Neil DeGrasse Tyson?”

“Neil Degrasse Tyson is an astrophysicist,” James smirked.

John squinted. “Are you gonna do this all night?” he grilled, fake indignation unable to keep its hold on his face for more than a few seconds. He slid off his seat and grabbed his drink. “Come on. Let’s play some pool.”

James let out a breath and scratched the back of his neck in reluctance.

“Don’t fucking tell me you don’t know how to play pool!” John barked, setting his pint back down with too much enthusiasm and spilling a bit of it with the contact.

A slight shrug was all James returned, then, “I can play a little snooker.”

John’s face contorted in such a way that his downturned eyes almost disappeared behind the muscles of his disbelief. “You are a proper fucking snob, James Flint,” he kidded.

James rolled his eyes through a soft snicker. “And you swear far too much.”

“And you _don’t_ swear enough,” John retorted. “You’ve really gotta lighten up, mate. Life’s far too bloody short to be so serious all the time.”

James watched John push the butt of his cigarette down into the ashtray, the slender stick scrunching like the body of an accordion.

“Come on. I’ll teach you,” John insisted, gesturing over his shoulder with a flick of his thumb.

James was shit at pool. If he were being honest, he was shit at snooker also, but the important thing was that he tried. He played two games with John and even managed to have a little fun in the process - something that’d been severely lacking in his life outside of Thomas.

Thomas.

James checked his phone again. He’d been doing it all night. He hadn’t really seen Thomas in four days, not truly counting the second day of the silent treatment when James had tried to corner Thomas in his office at the university and Thomas - patient as ever - simply waited for James to stop blocking the doorway. James practically begged Thomas to talk to him, to tell him where he’d been sleeping, to come home, but Thomas had no words for the man besides ‘ _how does it feel to be ignored?_ ’ and he hadn’t so much as glanced at James when he’d uttered them.

The fight at the pub was not James’ first since Thomas and he had become an item, but after the second altercation, Thomas had pleaded that James make more of an effort to not get so worked up over things. James had promised he would. And these were the consequences of ignoring that promise.

He studied John from across the billiards table as he bunched up the sleeves of his army green jacket. John hadn’t even asked about Thomas once tonight.

“Eight-ball. Corner pot.” John leaned over the wooden side and lined up his shot, chestnut spirals gently brushing the forest of black felt beneath him. He was wearing grey again, this time in the form of a light grey knit cap, and James found himself more than slightly bothered by the way the dullness of the color seemed to bring out his eyes - topaz glints of danger without even the slightest hint of remorse.

“Is there any meaning to all of that,” James questioned, gesturing at the inked roses peeking out from beneath John's sleeve. Honestly, he’d just wanted to fill the silence. It was much too loud in his head.

John glanced up at him then back down to the tip of the pool cue, sliding it between his fingers a few more times as he realized what James was referring to. “Are you trying to distract me from kicking your arse for the third time tonight?” he grinned.

“Not at all. I’m well aware there’s nothing I can say or do to best you at this game.”

The old ivory billiard balls clacked abruptly and the black one rolled eagerly into the pocket. John straightened up and rested the end of his pool cue on the floor. “I don’t even think you’re trying,” he teased.

James took a sip of his beer. He _was_ trying. He’d decided to switch from liquor to suds in order to delay the effect John was having on him and that took _a lot_ of effort. As far as the game was concerned though, “I don’t think this is my thing.”

John nodded, wrapping both hands round his pool cue and leaning the tip in James’ direction. “Okay. Then what is?" he asked with a slight tilt of his head.

James lips parted but pinned shut again once he realized that he was without any real answer. He liked chess, and he’d played rugby in college, but he didn’t fancy himself a devotee to either. “I’m gonna wash my hands,” he dismissed.

A thought pulled one side of John’s mouth. “How about polo?” he joked. “Or cricket! You look like the type of fellow who could play some mean cricket.”

“Fuck you,” James chuckled, placing his pool cue atop the table.

John collected it with a smirk. “You should be so lucky.”

James faltered at the words but was granted a reprieve from his embarrassment when he realized that John hadn’t noticed, already turning to put away the pool cues. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry. Where the hell was that washroom again?

“I’ll get the tab,” John called out, walking in the opposite direction.

“You don’t have to do that.”

John’s brows spoke before he did. “No shit. That’s what friends do. You can buy next time,” he said, spinning away before James could protest again.

_Next time._

James pushed open the door to the washroom and stopped to take a look at himself in the mirror, the familiar prickle of nervous energy spiking up to his shoulders. There couldn’t be a next time. There shouldn’t have even been a _this_ time. He pulled out his phone and requested an Uber, then stared at the map and waited. Ok. Ten minutes and this mess would be over. He set his phone down beside the sink and studied himself once more.

“Listen,” he said, peering into his own judgmental eyes. “Whatever this is, it needs to end. You should be working on making things better with Thomas, not out gallivanting with--”

He opened the pipes of the sink beneath him and cupped his hands underneath the waterflow, letting his face fall into his palms. It was neither refreshing nor sobering.

James didn’t know why he couldn’t finish the sentence. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to say his name in the mirror, as if John were some creepy bedtime story villain who would somehow manifest should his name be divulged. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to give him any more acknowledgment. Perhaps he simply did not want to experience the way his lips wrapped around the name, or how it tasted on his tongue all breathy and loaded and sweltering.

James turned off the faucet and dabbed a paper towel across his dampened skin then made to use the urinal. There were only two in the tiny room and one stall with a heavily graffitied door. He tried to read the illegible writing on the tile in front of him as the light above him slightly flickered.

“Badminton,” John said in jest, halfway through the washroom entrance. James froze. John walked over to the urinal beside him, a silly grin etched onto his face. “I can definitely see you playing badminton.”

He stood next to James and unzipped his jeans, shaking his head at his own joke. James tried to finish, but his body had tensed so much that he’d actually stopped midstream and couldn’t relax enough to continue. So he stood there, dick in hand, feeling the warmth of John’s side radiating into his.

“Christ. If these things were any closer we’d be crossing swords,” John kidded.

James yet again tried to swallow but his tongue wouldn’t work. He was so warm. He was so near. And without any music playing in the room James could hear the slide of John’s steady breath as it cascaded from his body. The man’s foot barely grazed James’ own but it sent a current of fire blazing up his leg and into that vulnerable part of him which seemed to have forgotten how to do much of anything that hadn’t involved growing and hardening. James quickly tucked himself in, barely washed his hands, and raced out of the washroom without even drying them.

Outside of the bar the air felt lighter, crisper as it carried the icy night, and James took several deep breaths in the silence, enjoying the smokeless wind. Realistically, he’d wanted to just to up and leave, but he was well aware of the inevitability of seeing John again lest he forgo his NA meetings altogether.

John joined him outfront soon after, pulling his hat down to cover his ears. “You forgot this,” he said, handing James his cell phone. “You alright?”

James felt more and more like an idiot every second. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’ve been attached to that thing all night,” John answered, gesturing to James’ cell phone. “Then you just leave it in the washroom?”

“I apologize. I’ve just been checking to see if Thomas has called.”

John nodded. “Ah. You’re in the dog house. Well, now it all makes sense. He’s mad at you about the fight, yeah?”

James nodded back.

“And that right there is just one of the many _many_ reasons why I don’t do exclusivity or domesticity. Far too many rules.”

James peeked over as John zipped up his jacket and bounced on his heels to muster up some warmth. He found himself confronted with the distressing image of the man beside him being cold and alone, sleeping on the street with no one to care about it. Of course John would have an aversion to domesticity; it seemed a plausible way to cope with the things he’d been through.

He’d worked with addicts before. Back when he was a resident psychologist at the hospital and before he’d obtained his teaching certificate James had encountered many different aspects of those who’d suffered from an addicted mind. Quite often, glorifying the struggle was coupled with trying to cope with a mental disability, but somehow, John seemed altogether different. And James would've been lying had he said he really didn’t want to know why.

“May I,” James started, hesitated, regained his confidence, “ask you something?”

“Sure,” John answered matter-of-factly. He blew into the hollow of his clasped hands in an attempt to warm them further.

James’ heart hammered behind his ribs. Maybe it was inappropriate but, “How did you lose your leg?”

The silence between them stretched on for far longer than the conviction behind James’ boldness. “You don’t have to answer that,” he quickly amended. “I’m sorry.”

“Christ, don’t be fucking sorry,” John muttered. “I’m so goddamn tired of people saying that they’re sorry to me. Whenever someone finds out about it - that’s always the first thing that they say.”

“I’m - I don’t know what else to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s just like a mole or a haircut - just additions and subtractions to the human form. It doesn’t define a person; it needn’t always be acknowledged.”

James stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked on down the shadowy street. He wanted to apologize for crossing the line, but that was obviously out of the question.

“It was a soft tissue infection,” he revealed. James turned his head in haste, John’s voice the last thing he’d expected to hear. “My foot had been infected for quite some time before I realized I should probably stop shooting up between my toes. But I was more concerned with trying to hide it.”

James wasn’t sure if he should be staring like he was, but the man _was_ speaking to him. It would've been rude to look away, right?

“My friend, Jack… he found me during one of my fevers. The last thing I remember is shaking - then I woke up in a hospital room and the bottom quarter of my leg was gone.”

He’d said it as if he were reciting last week’s grocery list. He didn’t sound nervous or embarrassed at all, but he also hadn’t at the meeting earlier. James’ anticipative gaze searched his every groove for any hint of emotion but there was none to be found. John was completely detached from his own history.

It might’ve just been a skill of John’s. Perhaps something he had learned in life that’d kept him safe. Be sociable. Direct their attention. If you’re putting on a show no one can fill in the blanks of your silence with their own perceptions of you. You can package yourself however you choose. No one ever had to look beyond the bells and whistles.

Or, it might have simply been PTSD.

Not knowing how best to proceed in the wake of the unruly thoughts John had sparked within him, James turned away slightly. He was too liquored up, had too many questions, too much desire, too many emotions he’d never willfully process, which only made him feel all the more guilty for even sharing the sidewalk with the man. And the deeper he dug, the farther he fell.

“So what’s _your_ poison?” John questioned.

James blinked at him. “Beg your pardon?”

“Why are you in NA?”

James clutched at the lining inside his pockets. It was a fair question and John had certainly earned himself an answer, but James hadn’t actually told anyone since he’d started on this journey. He hadn’t even said the words out loud yet.

“I’m an alcoholic.”

He’d expected John to apologize, to make a fuss about inviting him out for a pint in the first place, but the man next to him offered nothing aside from charitable silence. James fell grateful, the bitter taste of his sentence sliding down his throat right along with all of tonight’s other marked weaknesses. He needn’t acknowledge the jaws of gnawing failure which waited for him at the exit of every bar. He needn’t find an excuse for the drink which lingered on his breath. He needn’t explain himself to John. Just for tonight, he need only be James.

“There’s your cab,” John pointed out, holding up a hand and walking toward the street so the driver would see him.

James followed as the taxi hugged the curb, watched as John pulled open the door for him then rested his arms atop the doorframe while he waited for James to get in. It was curious, almost gentlemanly, but he hadn’t the time nor sobriety to analyze it.

“I’ll see you at next week’s meeting,” said James, dawdling at the side of the car. “I’m pretty sure there’ll be lemon shortbread.”

A grin twisted John’s jaw. “And miss the bourbon biscuits on my side of town? Doubtful.”

Ordinarily this would have been the part where the two of them shook hands and said _goodnight_ , but for some reason neither of them had really seemed to be in too much of a hurry to get to that part. John held James’ gaze for entirely too long for there to have been no words exchanged between them, and James felt as if his welcoming eyes were waiting for something else. He still wasn’t exactly sure what it was by the time he’d started to smile and avert his attention, hands clammy and shivering in his pocket.

"Goodnight, John," he said softly, barely able to manage another glance.

He quickly got into the cab.

John shut the door for him, then gave the car’s roof two heavy smacks as if giving it permission to pull away. An odd cocktail of exhilaration and anxiety poured over James. He fought back the warmth while he fought back the shakes. Yes, John was intriguing. He was unruly. He was certainly trouble. But James only had a few drinks with the man and played a little pool. He wasn’t even sure when he’d see him again. It wasn’t like they’d made plans. He didn’t even have the man’s phone number.

Speaking of which, James pulled out his phone to check once again if Thomas had called but a text message was all that awaited him.

 

 **John** : Same time next week?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai frands,
> 
> Are you excited that things are FINALLY starting to get "SilverFlint-y" here? Because I AM. I need this to happen like yesterday. I have no patience for my own story! Why did I do this to myself?! 
> 
> Oh. Right. I enjoy pain. 
> 
> Please disregard the question.
> 
> And for those of you who care, tonight Flint is wearing [this](http://www.stylishwife.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Mens-Street-Style-Outfits-For-Cool-Guys-22.jpg) and Silver is wearing [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/31/b1/c2/31b1c2775652516389dce74a012c9dd8.jpg).
> 
> Fashion is fun ^_^
> 
> Thanks for reading. I do hope you enjoyed!
> 
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets


	6. When you Lose Something you Can't Replace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue James Flint's demons: Slow fade into Flashback sequence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Context Alert: the following chapter is set before Miranda’s death and before James & Thomas become a couple. At this point in time, Miranda & Thomas are a couple, and the James & Thomas relationship is strictly professional.
> 
> Any questions before we begin? No? We good? Good.
> 
> Annnnd, action!

“He seems to be getting worse.”

Miranda settled her serving tray down at the corner of the desk and poured James and Thomas a cup of coffee each - two sugar cubes and a spot of milk for Thomas and one sugar cube for James - the way she’d grown accustomed to doing every week during their much anticipated meetings. They’d never asked her for it, and neither of them quite knew when the habit had formed, but over the past two months it’d become commonplace. She’d prepare their cups as the two men spoke, fix herself one, then circle around to join Thomas on the other side of the desk. Sometimes she’d rub his shoulders, others she’d sit in his lap, but more often than not she’d simply stand beside him with a gentle smile on her face and settle her gaze on James Flint.

This was one of those times.

“What’s the matter now?” Thomas entreated, though the sigh which followed the inquiry hinted more toward weariness than curiosity.

James took a sip of his coffee. “Well, it appears that I may have startled him at first. And over the course of the session he asked me several times who I was and what my business here entails. He was also extremely distrusting of my answers.”

“His behavior has shifted into that of someone with an aversion to people,” Thomas lamented. “It’s become apparent that I can no longer hold my department meetings here with him present anymore.”

Miranda ran her soft, slender fingers through the hair behind Thomas’ head, a soothing gesture which Thomas appeared to enjoy albeit take entirely for granted. She silently delighted in the way that James’ eyes followed the gesture.

“In the coming months he’ll become more confused,” James continued, placing his cup on Thomas’ desk. “He may wander and get lost within the house. He may begin to have trouble with speech which can trigger frustration and mood swings. He already seems to be having issues with proper management of his anger. Have you noticed this, Mr. Hamilton?”

Thomas nodded and peered over at a painting which hung on the nearby wall. _Atlas Turned to Stone._ It was one of his favorites. “He mostly takes his aggression out on Miranda and the hospice workers. I don’t know why he treats me differently. I know how much of a disappointment I am to him.”

Alfred Hamilton was an interesting case, or at least that’s what James had led Miranda to believe. He had been the well-respected Director of Critical Theory at an Ivy League institution once, and the fact that James had read his books before having the opportunity to witness his descent into senility firsthand _did_ offer an understandable level of intrigue. Miranda, however, did not share James’ enthusiasm, as Alfred’s contempt for her was something he’d never made any effort to hide, sane or mad.

“I swear, sometimes I think the man may actually _want_ to go back to that convalescent home,” Miranda chimed in, running a thumb along the side of Thomas’ neck as he stared off into the distance of his father’s expectations. “Whatever he can do to get as far away from me as possible.”

“He just needs a scapegoat,” Thomas defended, finally giving her the attention she’d been craving. But it was short-lived. He angled his attention toward James in as little time as it had taken him to begin his next breath. “Alzheimer’s can be rather stressful, correct? He often doesn’t even remember much of the day, but he has told me on several occasions that he understands and accepts the fact that he’s dying, and that I should be devoting my time and energy toward my career.”

Concern took center stage across James’ face. It seemed the kind of concern that could suggest the man cared more for Thomas than the average patient, but Miranda couldn’t be sure.

“I would caution you entirely against that,” said James. “The death of a loved one - whether one believes himself prepared for such a thing or not - has varying effects on everyone. Bereavement is best handled when regret is _not_ a dominating factor. I’d suggest… if I may…”

He glanced up at Miranda, hinting at the option for privacy.

“Of course. That’s what you’re here for, Doctor Flint,” Thomas encouraged.

James found his courage after another sip of coffee. “I’d suggest that you focus on making peace with your father, in whatever way that you can.”

Thomas rested his hand atop the one Miranda had used to give his shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. His eyes fell to his desk. “If I knew how to do that,” he murmured at the better half of a sigh, “perhaps I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now.”

James lifted his head a fraction and Miranda found herself inexplicably drawn to the small lump in his throat as he swallowed his coffee. A familiar warmth flowed almost instinctively toward the highest meeting of her thighs. “Well, I am at your service, Mr. Hamilton. And we can certainly work toward that end in the weeks to come.”

“I’m not sure that I want to,” said Thomas.

Miranda hid her smirk behind her cup and watched as James worked through several responses before ultimately settling on, “I’m sorry?”

Her gaze danced eagerly between the two of them.

“I don’t want to care what my father thinks of me. I want to be able to look the man in the eye and tell him that I’m happy with myself, with my life, my choices, and my wife. Can you help me do _that_?” Thomas asked plainly.

Purposeful blinks were about all James could achieve as the thick silence settled between them. His self-doubt was impressive considering how amazingly intelligent he was. The mere thought of it tugged at Miranda’s heartstrings. He was so humble, so green, and so remarkably handsome. He’d been the third psychologist assigned to Alfred’s hospice care team (because the man was quite simply insufferable), but James had managed to stick around for far longer than anyone else had been able to. If nothing else, it was a testament to his strength of character. James was so much more than his modesty had allowed for; if he’d only known how irreplaceable he had become to her, to them…

James searched the top of the desk along with the crevices of his own mind before he spoke again. “Sir, I’m not entirely sure that that is the best course of action.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t appear to be, but you haven’t been the one who's had to push back against the weight of this man’s idealism all your life. I know he’s my father, and I love him, but the peace I am seeking is not with his death. The relief I seek rests within destroying my need for his approval.”

“Then, with all due respect, I humbly suggest that you find another psychologist - one better suited to--”

“I don’t want another psychologist. I want someone who is going to challenge me, the way you do.”

“To be frank, I am here to counsel your father, to educate you on grief management, and to support you during the loss of a loved one, not to--” James stopped himself.

Thomas leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Not to what?”

“Forgive me, Mr. Hamilton. My opinion is unprofessional.”

“Please,” Thomas scoffed. “This isn’t a therapy session. We’re simply two men having a discussion. Please speak freely. And for the millionth time, please call me Thomas.”

One would be hardpressed to find anything that got Thomas Hamilton more aroused than a good, old fashioned intellectual debate, and he was more than willing to take up the sword when the subject skirted ethics in particular. His inclination toward men was a well-guarded secret, but it was much more difficult for him to hide the pink of his cheeks and the glimmer of his eyes whenever a young man struck him in that special way. To anyone else it’d seemed to amount to nothing more than platonic passions toward the subject at hand, but Miranda, as always, knew better.

“It is not exactly my place to debate you on your psychological preferences, sir.”

A slight twitch at the corner of Thomas’ lip suggested his pleasure with that response. Miranda sat on the arm of Thomas’ chair and made herself comfortable, running her nails up the fabric against his back and feeling the tension there, unbid. “No. It isn’t,” Thomas agreed, “but let us pretend that it is, just this once. What would you say?”

James’ thumb fidgeted atop the folded hands in his lap. “Honestly?”

Thomas nodded.

“I’d say your behavior is self-destructive, and I cannot professionally endorse it.”

“Professionally,” Thomas repeated. He sat back in his chair as Miranda settled an arm across his shoulders. “But not _unprofessionally_?”

“I - I’m afraid anything said unprofessionally on the matter would be in direct contradiction to my purpose here.”

Thomas grinned. “So you _do_ believe that I should tell my father to go to hell.”

The gorgeous smile and half chuckle which James graced them with caused both his admirers to follow suit. Miranda reached up from Thomas’ shoulder and ran her finger over the bridge of her husband’s ear, titillated with the prospects of such an exchange. She wondered if James could make out the perk of her nipples behind her thin satin shirt. She’d purposely worn a lace bra without padding, but James, ever the gentleman, kept his eyes above her neck.

“I don’t think it's appropriate to discuss my personal feelings on the matter, Mr. Hamil-- Thomas.”

“Propriety isn’t exactly our strong suit, Doctor Flint,” Miranda goaded, gliding a hand down toward Thomas’ chest.

James seemed to become very interested in his coffee.

“Tell me,” said Thomas, “if I were to continue down my path toward what you deem to be self-destruction, would you resign as our hospice counselor?”

James studied Thomas, then Miranda, as a knowing half-smile crept across her face. “I believe that our time is up,” he said by way of an answer, and rose to his feet.

 He extended his hand to Thomas who slowly stood and shook it, a hubristic smile edging across his face as well. “We’ll see you next week, Doctor.”

 James nodded once then addressed Miranda. “Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Please, allow me to see you out,” she insisted.

Miranda had grown sufficiently worked up over the afternoon's proceedings, and the walk through the foyer to the front door had proven much more difficult than anticipated. She loved seeing the two of them matching wits, trading ideas across that Rhodesian teak desk like the geniuses they both were. She’d wanted so many times to sacrifice herself upon that altar of a desk, as if somehow the tension between these two men could cause enough friction to ignite the kindling deep within her and set the whole damn thing ablaze. Miranda wanted them both, together, with her, in her, on her, enveloping her body in rhythm and moans. But she knew that she could not have that - not right this second, not even while her flesh burned through lust like the fuse of a cannon.

And that only excited her more.

She stared at James as she pulled the door open and held it so for his departure, but when he made to cross the threshold, “What are you doing?” he whispered in quiet panic, gently pulling her wrists from behind his neck and shutting the door with his foot.

They were alone but she knew it was too close for comfort, not with Thomas in the very next room, not with the neighbors watering plants in their bay windows, and the mailman making his rounds. The thrill of it was intoxicating to her, but the danger was all James could ever see.

“I want to see you tonight,” she beckoned. “It’s been almost a week. I miss you.”

Miranda leaned forward to kiss James but his apprehension wouldn’t allow for it. “I miss you too, but now is hardly the time nor place.”

“Then meet me tonight - at the cliffs.” She struggled weakly against his snug yet velvety grip and grabbed hold of his collar as soon as her hands sprung free. “Say you’ll be there,” she pressed into his lips.

James could no longer deny her. “I will,” he answered, owning one handful of her hair and another of her backside as their kiss deepened and their breaths became one. “You know I will.”

Her hand glided longingly down the sleeve of his jacket as he broke away and made for the door. Never before had Miranda been caught up in such a whirlwind as James Flint. Never before, except with Thomas Hamilton.

The walk back to Thomas' office was just as difficult, but he mirrored her mischievous smile as she shut the door and straddled his lap all the same. “That man is ridiculously handsome,” she beamed.

“You’ll get no protest from me,” sighed Thomas, his gaze catching on her smudged lipstick. “Did you kiss him?”

Miranda coyly twisted her nose. “Maybe?”

Thomas chuckled. “Your idea of foreplay is unparalleled.”

“Perhaps, but I _am_ willing to share.”

She kissed Thomas with the kind of appreciation and vigor owed to the man who had loved her so fully, the man who had accepted who she was and what she needed, just as she had done for him. Her tongue slid into his mouth with the hopes that she had still carried some of James’ flavor there, and that Thomas could taste him too.

“All I can taste is his dreadful black coffee,” Thomas joked.

Miranda smiled against his lips. “I’m meeting him later,” she confessed, her fingers making quick work of the buttons on Thomas’ shirt. “I’ll make sure to bring back a better souvenir.”

Strong and sure hands slid up her back and pulled down on her shoulders, forcing out an entirely unexpected moan. Smooth lips and unyielding teeth trailed graciously up her neck.

“I think I might ask him tonight,” she whimpered.

Thomas pulled back. “Do you - are you sure that’s wise? I don’t think our meeting went quite so well.”

“You don’t know the man as I do, my love,” she reassured, ghosting her nails down Thomas’ bare chest. “He was much more affected than he’d ever let on.

“Then I look forward to living vicariously through you later tonight, but for now…”

Thomas pushed his lips into her forehead, a gentle reminder that he had work to do. Miranda pouted but complied, refastening his buttons. “All work and no play makes Miranda a dull girl,” she warned playfully.

She had truly no idea of James’ sexuality. She knew that he admired Thomas, respected him, and held Thomas’ opinion of him in high regard, but as far as attractions were concerned, James had never expressed any sort outside of her. And even that had taken about a month of seduction because the man was quite frankly an oak.

“Darling,” Thomas called to her as she approached the office door. She peeked back over her shoulder, one hand still resting on the doorknob. “Do you really think that he’ll have us?”

Miranda smiled. “Do not underestimate how badly I desire the two of you inside of me.”

She opened the door without looking, turned, then “Alfred!” she cried, clutching her chest. “What are you doing just standing there, my God, you scared me half to death!”

 Alfred said nothing; just stood there and stared as a hospice worker came down the hall with a towel.

“I am so sorry, madam,” the woman said. “I just went to get his bath ready and he wandered away.”

“It’s alright,” said Miranda, tugging shortly at the ends of her shirt. “Just, please, keep an eye on him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

 By now Thomas was at her side, and Alfred was looking directly at him. “Are you alright, father?”

No words. Just the same glower everyone was greeted with, and those eyes that spoke of malices untold.

“I’ll go make your lunch, Alfred. Would you like that?” Miranda smiled.

Alfred did not smile back.

 

 

  **oo**

 

 

“It isn’t--” she exhaled sharply through her nose, nudging James’ shoulder and trying her damnedest to hold back a giggle, “It isn’t funny!”

James held his middle. “What did you do?” he managed to ask through a fit of hysterics.

“Well, I just stared at him mostly. But then - then he asked me for some salad dressing.”

Miranda sighed through her smirk as James doubled over in laughter, checking her sideview mirror as the lights of a passing car illuminated the inside of hers from the street behind them. She didn’t truly believe that it was James’ intention to make light of her pain, but Alfred Hamilton _did_ have his ways of communicating his disdain for her, and though James had never actually witnessed any of these interactions, she could tell that he was most certainly picturing the scene: her standing in the kitchen, hands on her hips after serving a salad and having the fruits and vegetables systematically tossed back at her by an old man who behaved akin to a spoiled child - too tired to eat and too hungry to sleep.

“I do appreciate how funny you find this,” she said, her voice rich with the salts of sarcasm.

“I’m sorry,” James snorted. “Come here, I’m sorry.”

He leaned over the center console of the car and kissed her cheek in apology. Miranda rolled her eyes and looked away, feigning disinterest. “You’ll have to do better than that to regain favor with me.”

“Oh, really?” James pulled her opposite cheek toward him until her mouth was in front of his. “What kind of things would you have me do?”

“Well, I can think of one thing off of the top of my head,” she grinned.

She opened the car door without warning, leaving James dumbfounded inside. He watched her through the windshield as she climbed onto the hood of the car. “Come on!” she coaxed.

James exited the car warily, looking around in the almost darkness, the glow of the city below them and the moon above them being their only offerings of light. He took a seat beside her atop the hood as his dim form inhaled the air engulfing them.

“ _Mmmm_ , I love coming up here,” she exhaled, pulling her long hair free from its oppressive bun and angling her face toward the stars. She’d found herself wishing there’d been a full moon tonight, but she certainly noticed how that didn’t stop James from studying the graceful line of her neck just the same. “It’s so quiet. So peaceful. Like you could disappear up here and nobody would notice.”

James shifted beside her, bending a knee and scooting around her back until she was sitting between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on her shoulder; Miranda let out a hum of approval.

“I’d notice,” he whispered.

She smiled and turned her cheek toward his lips. “You would?” she asked, but it was completely rhetorical, so James only answered with a chaste kiss.

When Miranda didn’t turn her head away, James followed with a kiss which held far more intent and she melted back with a small sigh. His hands roamed down the smoothness of her shirt and tucked themselves underneath, against soft, warm flesh.

“I love you,” he said.

Her breath had been shallow in the heat of James’ embrace, but it’d stopped altogether as the words brushed past her ear. Love? She turned to meet his eyes, the subtle scrape of his mustache along the apple of her cheek guiding her into his lips.

James admitted how he’d never been attracted to a woman before; how before he’d met her, he’d thought of life as nothing more than meaningless: the futile pursuit of success and notoriety intermingled with the animalistic urges of which only men seemed to satiate. Perhaps a nobel prize or an article in TIME would have kept him quietly trudging along. He’d make some profound psychological discovery in the realms of human consciousness and go down in history as the mind who’d conceived of it all. They’d make books containing his essays, photoshop his quotes into pictures of sunsets and mountain ranges, use his models as templates to teach in future universities, and it wouldn’t matter at all to him. His was the curse of most brilliant men. He’d believed himself far too cynical, far too terrifyingly strange for anybody to be able to love, and was simply too intelligent for his own good.

So, when Miranda turned fully to him, getting up onto her knees and removing her shirt, pushing him back over the car-hood and against the windshield, undoing the button and zipper of his jeans, hiking up her skirt, straddling his lap and taking him into her, she leaned down and kissed his ear and gently whispered, “I love you, too.” Because she did. And because he needed to know that that was possible.

Their bodies made easy work of what their words could not contend with. James pulled down on her shoulders, thrusting sharply into her, and she couldn’t help but remember the way her husband had done so similarly only half the day before. She now knew the things James liked, was almost certain that Thomas was among them, and the thought of it sent her over the edge much faster than she’d expected. She could have this. She could have them both. All she need do now is ask.

She collapsed, trembling in his arms, and he held her calm and quiet through her dwindling breaths. “There’s something - I want to ask you something,” she started.

James ran his fingers across her forehead to push back the hair which fell into her face as she lifted her head to look at him. “Anything.”

She took a breath.

“Get up!”

The demand struck cold in the encompassing darkness but her body followed it on its own accord. 

James scrambled across the hood to his feet. “What the fuck?!” 

A ghostly figure lingered beside the car, the glint of its eye and one hand appearing before the rest of it made for the light.

“Alfred?” Miranda questioned, squinting.

The old man stepped forward and raised his arm, chrome gleaming between his fingers. Miranda couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t - how did he get here? Had he walked? Had he driven? Was he holding a gun? Was it aimed at her head? Was she going to die? What about Thomas? Thomas. Thomas!

The metal shook with the tremors of the sick man’s hand. “Did you think that I wouldn’t find out?” he asked. “In my own house? That not even the faintest whisper of it would reach me?”

Miranda felt herself trying to breathe but her throat was closing like she’d fallen through ice.

“Alfred,” a voice to her right sounded out. The gun flew through the air and sailed over to James. “Are you alright?”

Of course he wasn’t alright! The man was pointing a gun at them! What the fuck was James thinking?!

“I-- No. I’m - I am most certainly not, sir.”

“Tell me what’s wrong,” James asked far too fucking calmly.

Miranda’s eyes locked onto the gun as it swung through black air and pointed at her:  Alfred’s answer to that particular question. Panic clawed high in her chest. Knees buckled beneath her as the shallow light twisted behind liquid terror. “Please,” she sobbed. “Please don’t--”

“Alfred,” James tried again. “You have every right to your anger. I only ask that you aid me in understanding it further. Can you explain it to me?”

The air grew quiet, the sound of crickets and dirt under moving feet the only answer that James had received this time. Miranda looked up from the palms of her hands fully expecting to see the end of her life hurdling toward her from the tip of a gun barrel, but Alfred was completely hidden behind James’ body. James had positioned himself between them.

“No!” she finally heard the old man say after a bout of incoherent mumblings. “This ends quietly, permanently, and in the manner of my choosing.”

James took a step forward. “And how is it that you want this to end, Alfred? Have you thought this through to its final outcome?” Gravel crunched beneath his feet. “Where will you go after all of this? What will you tell Thomas?”

The words fell from James as casually as dining room banter. Was he even afraid? Had he done this before?

“Don’t come any closer!” Alfred warned. “I have not excused your part in any of this… but this - this _woman -_ this disgusting excuse for a lady... she will not destroy my son with her vile lechery.”

Her skin buzzed then instantly grew numb, as if no longer a part of herself at all. James was risking his life for her, for this - how could she just sit there paralyzed like a coward? Fire rose in her belly, rash and overpowering. She loved this man. She loved Thomas. And she’d made a promise to herself years ago: _No one_ would ever make her feel ashamed about who, when, where, or how she loved. _No one. Not ever again._

Miranda rose to her feet. “ _You_ are the one who destroyed him,” she accused.

James turned, stunned, dread painting his face. He _was_ afraid. And in that moment, Miranda had wondered if she’d made a mistake. But the thought came and went, buried almost instantly in her overwhelming need to protect him, an instinct that she knew intimately and recognized immediately. She would not grovel at this old man’s feet. She would not beg for her life. She would shield her men, the both of them, from the consequences of loving the way they so chose, as true and as free as she’d once vowed to be.

Miranda could see him now. Just to the right of James shoulder as James stood there half-turned and pleading. “Don’t.”

“You think you can judge me?” she asked, Alfred’s frigid stare landing upon her. “You?”

“Stop!” James demanded, holding out his hand. He turned back toward Alfred. “Look at _me_ , Alfred. We’re talking. It’s just the two of us speaking, like men.”

Miranda stepped forward, tears in her eyes, fists clenched at her sides and shivering with frenzy. “I have loved your son _more_ than you _ever_ could, you miserable old fool!”

“Miranda, stop!”

“Vile woman!” Alfred shouted, voice shaky and hoarse. “Harpy!”

“I have honored and accepted him...”

“Banshee!”

“...nutured and protected him!”

“Alfred, look at _me_ ,” James begged. “Listen to--”

“And all you have ever done, all you have _ever_ achieved in all of your years as a pitiful excuse for a father--”

“Miranda!”

“ _\--_ is to repeatedly crush all that is good within him, the way every pathetic excuse for a man does in the face of true beauty!”

“ _Suh_ \- succubus!”

“Go straight to fucking hell,” she spat.

“No!” James screamed, lunging for the

 

...

 

..

 

.


	7. When you Love Someone but it Goes to Waste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smash Cut: Present Day

The tiles bled with the sticky mist of steam which was beginning to fill the bathroom. James placed his forehead against the wall just under the shower nozzle, its hardness still managing to house a chill and feeling slightly cool against his skin. He tugged at the valve handle until it couldn’t go any farther in that direction. Warm water rained down upon his shoulders and neck as it heated to an almost intolerable level.  

It wasn’t hot enough. Not enough for him to forget the way the gun rang in his ears. Not enough for him to sufficiently punish himself for not acting sooner, faster, quicker. If he had - if he hadn’t waited that extra second thinking maybe he could have talked some sense into the man - Miranda would still be here.

His skin began to redden under the scalding water, but he shut his eyes and took a breath, placing his hands on the wall and pushing himself backward into the jets. Water boiled across the top of his head and then down his chest with an accompanying cringe. And he deserved that, he thought. He deserved every bit of that.

The headline flashed behind his tightly shut eyelids: _Murder-suicide shocks London neighborhood._ And he would have traded positions with Miranda in the beat of a broken heart. He would have. Instead, there he was, remembering the weight of her limp body as he tried to revive it, the gush of blood which crowned her head, the earth muddied onto her skin and clothes, the emptiness in her eyes.

There was a good chance that Alfred Hamilton hadn’t even understood what he’d done before James had his hands wrapped around the old man’s neck and was pushing him toward the summit ledge, but Alfred kicked his legs and clawed at James regardless, because no matter how sick a person got their survival instinct was always the last thing to go. Chances were also good that James had no idea what he’d been doing either, not until the old man’s terrified expression disappeared from above his wrathful grasp and plummeted over the side. Why hadn’t he gone over with him, why hadn’t he called the police instead of just abandoning Miranda, why hadn’t he felt guilty for killing an old man with a mental disorder - those were all questions he hadn’t the courage to answer.

“Fuck!” he yelled into the steam.  

Fists balled and skin heated to the point of numbness. That’s what he’d been going for after all. The numb. Pain seemed to be the only way to bring it about. And in those moments Miranda’s voice would seem to turn up its ethereal volume, echoing throughout James’ skull as if hellbent on his redemption: _It’s not your fault._

The air in the bedroom met his raw skin with a temperature drop and a shiver. He dabbed his body with a towel then wrapped it around his waist, a meager sense of accomplishment creeping in beneath the apathy. At least he hadn’t cried this time. And the burn of the shower hadn’t been chased with the burn of a knuckle as it met with a wall or the burn of a drink as it ran down his throat. Perhaps he was getting better.

He fetched a pair of black boxer briefs and went about his post-shower ritual: unscented antiperspirant, aloe-enriched lotion on his hands, feet, and elbows, and even a bit of cologne this time. A spritz at the dip between his collarbones for no particular reason other than that he enjoyed the way the aroma of cedar, leather, and tobacco mixed with his own scent. He’d been neglecting himself, to be sure, but since Thomas had gone he’d slowly begun to rediscover those things in which he - alone - had once taken pleasure.

To be clear, it wasn’t that he didn’t miss Thomas. And it surely wasn’t that he was trying in any way to get used to being alone again; it was honestly just a natural thing that occurred when a person had gone through a trauma. He’d break down and then he’d build himself back up, brick by heavy brick. He wasn’t special in that respect. Such was the very nature of the beast.

James directed a spritz of his favorite cologne just beneath his waistband, too. He hadn’t done _that_ in a while. The huff of a faint laugh passed between his nostrils at the memory of Miranda’s grin once - that time whereupon she’d trailed playful kisses down the line of his stomach, surprised by the scent which had greeted her there.

“There’s someone else isn’t there?”

James turned to find Thomas standing in the doorway of their bedroom, luggage in hand and coat draped over his forearm. He was back, and James was instantly happy to see him, but the feeling only lasted a second.

“What?” he asked, barely audible.

Thomas stepped into the bedroom and set down his bag and coat, then looked James over rather pleadingly. “Just tell me the truth,” he said. “I’ve known for quite some time that your late nights have not been spent grading papers, I just didn’t want to believe it.”

James felt the muscles in his face grow tense with confusion. “You think I’m cheating on you?”

“I don’t - I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I do know that you’re hiding something. And you’ve been plagued with it for far too long. And I think, maybe - I think I’ve just been too consumed with my own suffering to have even considered…” His eyes shifted downward as he hugged his own arms at the realization. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

James closed the space between them so swiftly that Thomas almost reared back with timidity. James took his face into his hands and kissed Thomas ferociously, making up for every painstaking moment he’d spent away from the man he loved. Soft hands and tender lips folded around James as he backed Thomas into the wall and pressed against him, his underwear doing his appreciation a disservice.

It wasn’t the apology. God knows Thomas had absolutely nothing to apologize for. It was the fact that he’d finally begun to understand. James _had_ been sacrificing so much of himself in order to help Thomas recover, and yes, that was due a great deal to his guilt but that wasn’t the only reason. The truth was, Thomas gave James a purpose when everything else in his life fell short. He’d filled the void Miranda had left, and James felt that he owed the man everything for it. He felt like Thomas Hamilton had saved his life.

“No,” Thomas managed underneath mouthfuls of James’ lips. “No, we need to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk,” James murmured into his neck.

“But we need to.” He pulled James' hands from his cheeks and kissed a knuckle in appeasement. “Please.”

James struggled to keep his thoughts far from the surface. No, he didn’t want to talk. He _never_ wanted to talk. All talking ever did was stir up issues he’d been quite content keeping buried under layers upon layers of well-adjusted displeasure. He knew full well the therapeutic benefits of expressing oneself - he’d parroted the theories to his patients for years - but that didn’t mean he wanted to partake in the act. Besides, he was a much better listener anyway.

Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at James, waiting for him to fill the empty spot beside him. Eventually, James did. Reluctantly, as fingers threaded between his.

“Will you talk to me?” Thomas asked.

“About what?”

“Anything... Everything.”

An unwelcomed heat flared up through his wrist, all too familiar except for the cause. This was Thomas touching his hand, not some stranger on the street. What the hell was happening?

James pulled away and rubbed his forearm. “I can’t,” he whispered, looking down at the blooms of redness on his wrist.

“You can’t?” Thomas repeated, puzzled 

Breath began to thin in James' throat and his heartbeat responded accordingly. _Talk about what exactly? What does he want me to say? Why is it so fucking hot in this room?_ He instantly knew what it meant, what came next, and he got up from the bed and made his way to the closet.

“What’s wrong?”

Thomas didn’t get an answer. Instead, James ripped a shirt from a hanger and threw himself into it. His hands were shaking and his lips grew dry, breaths coming and going quicker than before now. A pair of jeans slipped up his legs in a similar frenzy.

_Fuck. Not now. Why right now?_

“What are you doing?” Thomas questioned from the bed, fresh worry clouding his tone.

Again, James offered nothing in response. He fastened his jeans and found his shoes, foregoing socks altogether. He tried to pass Thomas for the keys on the nightstand but by then the man had seen enough.

“Talk to me!” he demanded. His voice was uneven as if on the verge of tears, forcing James to look up and take notice. Thomas grabbed James’ arms and looked into his eyes. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”

James rested his palms on the top of his head - a technique he’d learned that would open the lungs when his chest would feel too tight to let the air in. He tried to control his breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth. But the room was too small. The air was too thick. His skin was too hot. He had to get out.

“I just need some air,” he said, trembling.

“Then I’ll open a window.”

“I can’t do this,” he muttered, yet again trying to get past Thomas.

“No!” Thomas shouted, pushing back against James’ chest and placing himself between he and the keys. “James Flint you _talk_ to me!”

“What do you want me to say?!” James shouted.

Thomas reached out and held James' head between his hands the way James had done to him earlier. He steadied him and stared into his eyes, running one hand over his hair. “I want you to tell me what’s happening,” he begged.

“I can’t…”

“I want you to tell me why you cry in the shower, where you--”

“No…”

“--go when you think I’m asleep beside you, why--”

“Stop it…”

“--you wake up in the middle of the night screaming. James I...” James shook himself from Thomas’ grip, cheeks starting to burn from the contact. “...I just want to know why you’re suffering, my love! Why won’t you let me fight it with you?!”

“Because you can’t!” James yelled, frightening even himself. “I can’t let you! Don’t you see? Everything that I do is for you! All of it!”

Thomas’ face grew pained and tears slid to his chin as his gaze crossed the tense air between them. “Is loving me truly that hard?”

“No,” James answered hoarsely, looking everywhere but at the man he was speaking to. “No. Loving you is the easy part.”

“Then for God’s sake, James,” Thomas touched him once more, wrapping his hand around the back of James’ neck, “why the hell won’t you let me love _you_?”

James lifted his eyes to meet his. “Because I don’t deserve it,” he confessed.

The pit of James’ stomach twisted and dropped. _Because I killed your father_ , he’d wanted to say. _Because I fucked your wife. Because I let her die. Would you still love me if you’d found out the things that I’ve done? Would you? If you knew the person I’ve become?_

“Isn’t that _my_ decision to make?”

James closed his eyes, swallowing a trembling breath as his body did its best to weather wave after wave of anxiety. He hadn’t realized that he was swaying forward until the warmth of Thomas’ forehead met his.

“Don’t hate me,” James said between ragged breaths.

“My God, I could never hate you.”

The words hurt more than they helped. James battled the rising lump in his throat, squeezing his eyelids together as the tremors overtook him.

“Just tell me,” Thomas pleaded.

James reached around Thomas and grabbed his keys.

“James.”

He started toward the door.

"James!” Thomas grabbed his arm but James kept walking as if it hadn’t even happened. “Don’t do this! James, don’t do this!”

He heard Thomas call his name once more, his voice frantic and broken, but James couldn’t turn back. Not now. Not ever. What exactly would he be bringing back with him? A murderous, violent mess of a man who can’t even bear his beloved’s touch? It'd worked before - when Thomas was too consumed with his own grief to even consider James', that'd been just fine - but not this. Not Thomas trying to take on the role James had already perfected between them. It wasn't his job to nurse James' wounds. That wasn't his role to play. And James knew then, as he’d always known but was too afraid to admit: He had nothing else left to offer a beautiful creature like Thomas Hamilton. What Thomas now craved was an invitation to his own destruction, and James just simply could not abide it. All he’d do now is ruin Thomas, just like everything else he’d ever loved.

 

_I’m sorry. I can’t. Don’t hate me._

 

 

**oo**

 

 

The soap at the hotel smelled of apricots and sandalwood. James washed his hands, dried them, then pressed his palm into his nose, inhaling the rich aroma. And just for a second, he found solace there. The next second, however, was wrapped in a battle of guilt over accomplishment for managing to avoid Thomas at work today (which had been no easy feat as it’d required him to walk a mile out of his way across campus). Still, small victories.

James grabbed his copy of _Beyond Good & Evil _ and plopped down onto the bed, reaching up and turning on the small wall sconce above him. He fanned the pages out and brought them to his face, sniffing the old ink and parchment before bringing his fingers to the page and gliding them just beneath the words where he’d last left off:

  1. _Every select man strives instinctively for a citadel and a privacy, where he is FREE from the crowd, the many, the majority-- where he may forget ‘men who are the rule,’ as their exception;-- exclusive only of the case in which he is pushed straight to such men by a still stronger instinct, as a discerner in the great and exceptional sense. Whoever, in intercourse with men, does not occasionally glisten in all the green and grey colours of_ _distress, owing to disgust, satiety, sympathy, gloominess, and solitariness, is assuredly not a man of elevated tastes; supposing, however, that he does not voluntarily take all_ _this burden and disgust upon himself, that he persistently avoids it, and remains, as I said, quietly and proudly hidden in his citadel, one thing is then certain:_



James eyes darted to the soft hums and the blinking light of his cellphone. He rested his book atop his chest and traded the remainder of the passage for the words of a text message. 

 **John:** How did the hipster burn his tongue?

Both surprised to see John’s name and confused by the random riddle, James played along nonetheless. 

 **James:** How?

James stared at his phone and waited.

 **John:** He drank it before it was cool

James snorted, not expecting to have found such pleasure in such an asinine joke.

 **John:** You laughed. Admit it

 **James:** Just barely.

 **John:** Ok. Tell me a joke then. Since you’re so damn funny

James felt a small smirk curling into his cheek.

 **James:** I never claimed to be funny.

 **John:** You should be more appreciative of the role I play in our friendship then, James

 **John:** Someone has to be the comic relief JAMES

A smirk was slowly becoming a smile.

 **James:** You’re right. I apologize for my thankless behavior.

 **John:** I accept. But I still feel raw about it

 **John:** I think you should buy me dinner, on account of my bruised ego

James let out a small gust of air, half laugh, half disbelief.

 **James:** Is that right?

 **John:** *nods*

And almost as if on cue, James’ stomach began to rumble. He realized he hadn’t eaten since that morning and rolled his eyes at the lack of subtlety which life often afforded him.

 **James:** Alright. Where?

 

 

The cheap pizza place where John had asked James to meet him was definitely not what James would have chosen. He was never keen on having to eat with his hands, but also, it wasn’t like this was a date. He had no one to impress.

He walked in and spotted John seated at a booth in a back corner, arm strewn lazily atop the back of the seat and looking down at his cellphone. He’d expected to get there before him so that was already his first misstep. His second came quickly after, when he found himself wrapped in a sudden chill as John looked up and acknowledged him.

John smiled, small, brief, with a quick nod of his head. He was wearing fucking grey again, and James was beginning to believe he might be doing it on purpose - just to bother him. Ok, no, that was silly. Maybe the man just liked the color.

“You made it,” John exclaimed, extending his arm across the table as James approached.

He shook his hand.

_Ok. No electric currents. No sparks. No chills. Just two people having some dinner. Nothing to get so worked up over._

John pushed a menu over to him as James settled into his seat and removed his coat. “They have the best pizza in town, but there are other things too… if pizza’s not your speed.”

_Words, James. Words go here._

“I… don’t mind pizza,” he said, though James’ eyes hardly focused on the menu, seeking a trail down from John’s eyes to his lips, then further down to the undone buttons of his shirt and the shiny silver necklace which dangled from the opening.

Eventually, he found the menu.

“See anything you like?” John questioned.

James eyes snapped up to meet his, a crush of embarrassment falling away upon noticing that John wasn’t being suggestive. He was asking about the food.

“Yes - uh, the rigatoni. It sounds great.”

“Right, I’ve had it. It’s very good. I’ve had pretty much everything in this place actually.”

“Everything except me,” a young woman added. She leaned a hip onto John’s side of the booth and looked down at him playfully. “I missed you at that afterparty. Where’d you disappear to?”

John glanced at James and then smiled at the woman, the type of smile a person gives someone when they’re trying not to be rude. James recognized her soon after. The night of the fight - she was the well-fed sloth playing in John’s hair.

“Idelle, this is my friend, James,” John introduced.

“Hey, love. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just water will be fine, thank you.”

 She wandered off and James watched John as he shifted in his seat. “I didn’t know she’d be working tonight,” he whispered sheepishly.

There was an obvious chance that John was lying, that maybe he’d picked this place solely because he knew that she’d be here, in the off chance that she’d make James jealous, or territorial, or, who knows? But as James tried to read John's tells, he realized that that probably hadn't been the case. John was genuinely embarrassed, and that was curious to say the least. John hadn’t been embarrassed the first time James had seen him with Idelle. So why the self-consciousness now?

They ordered their food and Idelle continued to try her luck, much to John’s thinly veiled discouragement. Still, he managed to be cordial which certainly spoke to his good-nature. James honestly would not have had the patience.

She reached for a lock of John’s windblown hair but he grabbed her hand rather smoothly. “It’s been a little while since my friend and I have spoken. Would you mind if--”

“Oh, gosh!” Idelle gushed, eyes wide. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’ll go check on your food.”

 She collected the menus and made herself scarce. John looked at James with apologetic eyes. “I’m sorry; I should have done that sooner, it’s just - I really like coming here, and I don’t want to have to stop just because she works here, you know?”

“You don’t have to explain,” said James. “It’s fine.”

John nodded and grabbed the straw of his drink, pulling it to his mouth. James looked on as the lemonade slid up the straw and vanished between John’s lips.

“So how are you?” John queried. “I haven’t seen you at any of the meetings.”

James nodded, looking away. “Yeah, I - I haven’t gone to any in a couple of weeks.”

“Any particular reason?” asked John, absently swirling the ice in his drink around with the better part of his straw.

“Just not up for it, I guess.”

“Well,” John scoffed, “you barely even participated as it is. Something must have happened to stop you from wanting credit for time served.”

James wanted to return John’s amiable expression, but the reason John sought clouded anything else. “I don’t really want to talk about it,” he admitted.

“Fair enough,” John acknowledged, tossing his arm back over the top of the seat-back.

James admired the art on his arm, yet again trying to make out the words. He could see more of it now, definitely roses and tree branches, but he figured it better to ask than to stare.

“You never answered me that night at the pub, when I asked you about your tattoo.”

John peeked over at it as if he’d forgotten it was there, a thin smile playing at his lips. “It’s just a question you don’t become too keen on answering once you’ve heard it for the thousandth time. It's"--he raised his hand level with his forehead--"right up here with 'what do you do' and 'where are you from' as my least favorite and the most generic ways to get to know a person.”

A short hum of understanding accompanied James’ nod. James wondered if John’s reluctance might have been due to the fact that John fancied the intrigue, but before he could entertain the thought any further, John lifted his shirt sleeve, placed his arm on the table.

The top of the piece was scrawled across his deltoid and down into his bicep. James leaned forward and read it to himself: _I am a forest and a night of dark trees, but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses._

“It’s from--”

“Thus Spoke Zarathustra.”

John’s eyebrows scrunched together. “Nobody ever knows that.”

James leaned back in his seat. “I happen to be reading another of Nietzsche’s books at the moment, but that one,” he gestured with a tilt of his head in the direction of John’s arm, “is fantastically difficult to read.”

John chuckled, pulling down his sleeve. “You aren’t kidding. I’ve read it three times already and it still gives me a headache.”

A grin pulled at the corner of James’ mouth. “Do you read a lot?”

“Not as much as I’d like to. I spend most of my free time working on my music, but I definitely keep a book on hand.”

“What are you reading now?” James asked, leaning forward and crossing his forearms on the table.

John thought for a moment. “Something by Albert Camus. _The Rebel_.”

James lifted his brows. “That’s a good one,” he nodded. “Do you consider yourself an absurdist?”

Again, John’s eyes lifted, lost in thought, and James couldn’t help but find pleasure in just how beautifully the man wore that expression. He suddenly wanted to ask him thousands of questions in order to see it again and again.

“I’d say so,” he explained. “For the most part anyway… although I do tend to lean toward existentialism from time to time."

James wasn’t sure what it was, but at that moment he fell completely at ease. Maybe it was the subject matter, or perhaps John’s easy gaze, but all at once he felt calm and awake and alive, and he hadn’t felt that in a very long time.

He took a sip of his water. “What made you want to dedicate an entire arm to it?”

John smiled and granted James a glimmer of the expression that he’d been silently hoping for. “I’ve just always really loved that passage. There is… an element of this journey into the dark that I’m only now beginning to appreciate - now that that darkness doesn’t include the self-medication of heroin and sex.”

James couldn’t help but stare in response. Who was this man? What else had he gone through? Why did James almost immediately desire to put all the pieces of this puzzle together when he’d been too afraid to even open the box just a short moment ago.

“Well, I’ve read many a book and have fallen in love with many a verse, but never have I wanted to immortalize it on my skin.”

John huffed out his response. “Do you even _have_ any tattoos?”

“I do,” James said by way of a sigh. “But definitely not anything like that.”

“Well, with _that_ reaction now you _have_ to show me.”

James didn’t mean to sigh again in such quick succession with the first, but he reluctantly lifted up the sleeve of his shirt anyway. John reached across the table to give James’ arm a gentle twist in order to see it better.

And the electric currents were back.

John smiled. “It’s cute.”

“It’s not _cute_ ,” James contested.

“Well, it’s not threatening either,” John teased. “I mean, I know the moon is said to bring about forms of lunacy, but I highly doubt yours has the same power, mate.”

James shook his head, trying to hold back a laugh, and John seemed to enjoy the spectacle.

“It was a drunken night in my early twenties,” James defended. “I think I thought it was meaningful.”

“Dare I ask for said meaning?”

“Fuck if I know,” James chuckled. “I didn’t even know I’d gotten the bloody thing until I rolled over onto it the next morning.”

John laughed and James looked at his own arm, a familiar sizzle crawling up to the surface where John had just touched him. He covered it with his hand.

“Your arm is turning red,” John noticed, his concern stitching into his brows.

James rubbed his skin. “I’m sorry,” he said, without exactly meaning it as an apology.

“Are you... doing it on purpose?”

James blinked. “No.”

“Then why are you apologizing?”

James looked down at the table between them, then at the skin which betrayed him. “I just - don’t like to be touched.”

“Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. You didn’t know.”

John folded his hands and rested them on the table. “You could have stopped me, you know.”

James glanced up at him. “I didn’t want to.”

His eyes fell back to his arm, the awkward pause in his motion after he’d said the words pulling James deeper into himself. _Now the man will surely think you’re a lunatic. Good job, James. Smashing._

“Does it work the other way around?” asked John.

“I’m sorry?”

“If you touch someone else, does the aversion respond in kind?”

James pondered the question. “I actually don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t touch people.”

“Not even Thomas?” John continued to interrogate, taking another sip of his lemonade.

“Thomas is actually the only person it doesn’t happen with… until recently.”

“ _Hmph_. So it’s getting worse.”

James didn’t mean to squirm, and he’d tried his best to hold John’s stare but the contact and the questions were a bit too acute right at that very moment.

“I’m sorry if this is too personal,” said John. “You don’t have to answer; I just find it fascinating.”

_Fascinating? Not absolutely mental?_

“It’s fine. I’m just not used to talking about it.”

John brought his clasped hands up to his mouth and studied James from over his knuckles. “Do you want to test this theory?” he asked.

James squinted. “What do you mean?”

“Do you want to see if the same thing happens when you touch someone else?”

“I - how would we go about that?”

John wordlessly lowered his tattooed arm onto the table, supporting his chin upon the knuckles of his other hand. James hesitated. He looked down at John’s outstretched arm and felt the tips of his fingers itch. Should he? It was highly inappropriate, but John _had_ given him permission. Slowly, reverently, James reached out and lowered his hand onto John’s bicep. He felt himself swallow.

John’s skin was lava to the touch, smooth, firm, intense. Or maybe it was James’ hand, he couldn’t be sure. The palm of it felt like it was on fire but when he lifted it from the warmth of John’s skin, the heat slowly dissipated. He placed it back down even softer this time, all the while unable to look at him.

His fingers found a snail-like trail down the twisting branches of John’s tattoo and around one of the roses. James faltered at the recognition of old track marks buried in the crook of John’s arm. He lingered there for longer than he probably should have, thumb gliding against the slightly raised surface. John’s hair stood on ends and his skin peppered up into hundreds of tiny goosebumps. James continued to trace John’s artwork, the concentration of heat slowly starting to radiate through the rest of his body.

John’s steady breath was his only tether as James lost himself inside this touch. By the time he reached John’s wrist John’s fingers were already clasped around James’ arm too. Their hands met with a shock that traveled up to James’ neck and mingled perilously with the spiculum of apprehension dwelling there. James shut his eyes, trapped in the sensation, the height of it, the newness, the pressure. John flipped his hand over and carefully threaded his fingers between James' own, and somehow James' fingertips found themselves squeezing into the dips between John’s knuckles and sliding down the back of John’s hand.

“Ok, rigatoni for you.” James pulled away, turning sharply to Idelle as if he’d seen a ghost. Idelle placed James plate in front of him, then turned to John, “and your usual.”

“Thank you,” John said, seeming the very picture of unbothered.

She smiled sweetly, blinking over at James as if she were just as embarrassed. She asked if they needed anything else and bid them an enjoyable meal after they declined. John grabbed a napkin and dabbed blotches of grease from atop his steaming pizza slice.

“So what’s the verdict?” he asked just before biting into the slice. “Any redness?”

James opened his hand and peered into his palm, then examined the part of his forearm where John’s hand had found its grasp. How could he seem so unaffected by it? James had almost spontaneously combusted in his seat.

“It - I don’t think it…” he rubbed his skin. “It appears to be fine.”

John nodded, chewing happily. “So you have to be the initiator,” he concluded, mouth still half full. “I would have figured as much.”

Could it truly have been _that_ simple? James stuck his fork into his food. “Why’s that?”

“Well, you’re not exactly approachable, mate. Of fucking course you’d need to be in control of physical contact.”

“ _You_ approached me,” James returned, sounding a bit more defensive than he’d intended.

John grinned. “Yeah, but, I’m an anomoly. And I make stupid decisions all the time.”

The tension in James' shoulders began to melt again. “So approaching me was a stupid decision?” James smirked, appreciative of the fact that John wasn’t making this whole thing as uncomfortable as James felt.

“No,” John said matter-of-factly. “Approaching you was the best decision I’ve made in months.”

James’ fork stopped in his plate and he peered up at John yet again, but this time John’s eyes were waiting for him.

There is a point at the end of any witty banter. The moment when a smile fades back into a resting lack of expression and a person latches onto the next thought as it whisks them away from the emotions which provoked it. And it was in that moment, between the end of a word and the beginning of the next, that James would find John's eyes. Always. It was becoming a dangerous habit communicating in such a way. There were words attached to every single one of these glances, and feelings laced throughout the curves of each and every letter, but they hung heavy in the air between them without any formal acknowledgment, surrounding them in the vulnerary comfort of silent understanding. James knew. John knew. And they were _both_ aware that the other knew. It was now simply a matter of who was going to give in first.

James held John's stare as more of a challenge than an actual flirtation. And for the first time since they'd begun whatever this was that they were doing, John was the first to look away.

“What?” he asked evenly, considering the fact that he'd been thrown so obviously off balance. He fiddled with his pizza crust before looking back up at James.

“I thought - at first - that you were just the kind of person that flirted with everyone,” James confessed. John halfway smiled, but not enough to distract James. “I thought you were a narcissist, an idiot, and a cocky little shit. But you're not. Aside from the little shit part, you're actually quite genuine.”

“I'm sorry, is this supposed to be a compliment?”

“No. It's an apology.”

John crossed his arms and sat back in his seat, looking James over in silent contemplation.

“I'm sorry,” James owned up. “I was wrong for judging you, and I was wrong about you.”

John nodded almost unnoticeably. “Well, in the interest of full disclosure, there's something I should probably confess to you as well.”

James fought a grin. “Go on.”

John took a deep breath and leaned into the table, getting as close to James as a whisper could carry, close enough for James to watch his pupils cycle through different phases of dilation.

“I'd really like to fuck you,” he said softly.

The confident stare which James had built up crumbled almost immediately. He glanced down at his dinner plate before searching John's eyes for any hint of humor, but there was none to be found.

“Too honest?” John asked, his tone like butter.

James let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. “No, just - unexpected.”

“Really?” John smirked. “Well _now_ look who's not very good at interpreting social cues.”

James wanted to bury his face in his hands, but he settled for looking down into his plate. He was sure that his face was as red as his pasta sauce.

“Do you want to get out of here?” John tempted.

“Yes,” James answered almost instantly, finding John's eyes yet again. He was serious. Deadly serious. And John's eyes spoke to James in a way that could rival the most scandalous of words. “But I'm not going to.”

John sighed and licked his lips before pulling his bottom one between his teeth. “Pity,” he said, surveying James’ body with an all too recognizable eagerness. James felt his skin tingle under the weight of John’s exploration. Eventually, he sat back in his seat again, once Idelle came over to collect their plates.

It wasn’t that James hadn’t wanted to. On the contrary, his body was begging for it; he was mentally kicking himself for saying no, wondering of ways he could take it back without seeming ridiculously desperate. But the truth was, he was afraid. Afraid of John’s touch, how it lingered and burned in all the right ways. It was formidable. It was foreign. And James needed time to process everything that’d happened. If he went home with John he’d most likely regret it, and he was, perhaps, even more afraid of what would happen if he didn’t regret it at all.

“Now you definitely have to pay for dinner, on account of my ego and my extremely hurt feelings.”

“Your feelings are hurt?” James asked with a chuckle.

“They are,” John insisted, clutching his chest dramatically. “Believe it or not, I rarely ever get rejected, but if playing hard to get is your thing…” He scooted out of the booth seat while James shook his head and dug into his back pocket for his wallet. “I’m gonna use the washroom,” John informed.

He disappeared into the back of the restaurant, giving James a much needed reprieve. James gestured at Idelle, a deep breath fillIng his lungs as he realized how badly his hand was shaking. Christ. What had this man awoken in him in such a short period of time? John was either his savior or the fucking devil incarnate.

“Can I get you anything else?” Idelle asked.

“Just the receipt.”

Idelle stared at James, confused. “It’s already been taken care of,” she explained.

James returned her bewilderment. “When?”

“Oh, Silver has a tab here,” she said with a smile, walking away with James’ empty glass.

“Of course he does,” James said to himself, an affectionate scoff tinting a fraction of a smile.

He got out of the booth and grabbed his coat, just getting it wrapped around him as John reemerged.

“Already have a tab, ay?” James accused, adjusting the collar of his coat.

John grabbed his jacket and followed suit. “Well, how else was I supposed to get you to come out? Invite you like a normal person?" 

They were standing face to face now, with only about two feet between them. It was enough for James to reach out had he wanted to, or more to the point, had he been able to, but the desire was suppressed by the crippling fear. It was a rather odd mixture.

“How’re you getting home?” James managed instead.

“The tube.”

James took a breath then decided, hesitant, vulnerable, “I’ll take you.”

For some strange reason it felt like everyone in the entire restaurant had stopped talking right then. James knew it was only his imagination, but he clung to the silence hinging on John's response as if he’d spin off the earth otherwise.

After what felt like forever and a series of blinks, “Alright,” John accepted.

He followed James into the cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^_________^
> 
> Hai frands, 
> 
> Just checking in. How we doing? Are we having a good feels trip? I put Chapter 6 and Chapter 7 out together because I thought they might be difficult to get through (lord knows they were difficult to write) and I wanted to grant you all a bit of a reprieve from the story of Miranda... As for Thomas, I hope it didn't hurt too much.♡
> 
> So now you all know the source of some of James' larger demons. Thanks for suffering with us.
> 
>  
> 
> And Thanks for reading as always! 
> 
> Love & Rockets.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. Oh, hai John's [grey shirt](http://resources2.news.com.au/images/2014/03/22/1226861/969630-04f06352-b164-11e3-995d-6099a80e173b.jpg), fuck you very much you pretty fucker! :)


	8. Could it be worse?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue unresolved sexual tension.

John’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard of his phone, twitching with thoughts and replies that didn’t quite fit. He hadn’t exactly expected Anne to be of much assistance, not really, but he honestly didn’t know what else to do with himself. All he’d desired since the moment he’d gotten into the seat beside James was to reach across the car and have his way with him. So, it was either text someone or sit on his hands.

 **John:** but then why would he offer to drive me home?

 **Anne:** You mean AFTER you told him you wanted to fuck him?

 **John:** Exactly. I don’t know what that means. He’s giving me mixed signals

“It's just a left up ahead,” John directed, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?”

 **Anne:** I don’t think this even comes close to something to bitch about.

 **Anne:** Fuck’s your problem again?

James shook his head. He'd been answering that way the entire ride, just nods, head shakes, and gracious smiles. Very few words. And John hadn’t exactly been the pillar of vernacular prowess himself, settling for small talk about the shitty weather they’d been having lately, and a story about that one time when Jack had tried to drive through some sleet during a layover in New York. It’d earned him a small chuckle and a quick once over from James, a moment in which John couldn’t help but wonder if the butterflies in his stomach were as obvious as they’d felt, or if the man seated so close and yet so far from him had happened to be just as nervous. James’ strong, silent demeanor had always been a prominent characteristic, though; it didn’t exactly communicate anything aside from introspection.  

 **John:** Idk fuck. It’s him. He just does something to me

 **Anne:** So do something to him ;)

To be honest, the fact that he couldn’t touch James made John’s desire to do so all the more significant. There were so many rules he’d never encountered, so many loopholes and pitfalls to his charm that he hadn’t ever had any reason to account for. He’d grown so accustomed to getting whoever he’d wanted whenever he’d wanted them that this was pretty much brand new territory for him, and the thought of that was absolutely terrifying. He tried not to think about it - it or the way that his hand still buzzed with the memory of James’ skin and the understanding that the sensation had better be savored because there was no telling if he’d ever have the distinct pleasure again.

But did he want James because it was a challenge or because there was actually something special about the man? In fairness, John had been intrigued from the very first time he’d laid eyes on him all alone in the back of that auditorium. And he hadn’t known about James’ touch aversion that night outside of the pub, that moment when he’d stared at James from over the door of the cab and allowed his eyes to whisper stories of his lust with the kind of subtlety that was linguistically foreign. He’d been holding back that night, as he’d done this night as well, and that was definitely not something that John did very often. He’d already been treating James differently, thoughtfully, and that said more than anything else. Yes, denial and restraint _had_ upped the degree of desire and intrigue, but it was hardly even close to being considered the deciding factor.  

“Here, on the right. The old brick building.”

James promptly slowed the car and pulled in close to the desolate curb on his left. It was only half past eight and the street felt oddly deserted for this time of night, prompting John to feel all the more exposed without the background commotion people normally used to hide from uncomfortable silences. He ashed his cigarette through the car window. Why hadn’t James played any music in the car? That surely would have made things less awkward.

_Ok, relax, you've done this a million times already. Just ask him to come up. Since when has this ever been a big deal? He didn’t exactly say ‘no’ in the restaurant. So maybe he makes it clear this time. So what? Why are you so afraid of rejection?_

John looked over at James while James looked over at him, their gazes mingling as they’d come to do now, locking onto each other and canvassing, exchanging, understanding. Two gradual wrinkles formed over the bridge of James’ nose, and in that moment, John saw everything in the desperate eyes of the mess blinking back: the apprehension, the hope for what might be, the inner contention with what James had already decided should not have existed at all. John had him. Right then, he could have maneuvered James however he saw fit. But for some odd reason he couldn't, wouldn’t dare trifle with such a vulnerable display. He’d actually made up his mind before the option could even be properly weighed.

And, that… that was _completely_ unfamiliar. An automatic decision to _not_ take advantage? To abandon the hunt in the face of such willing and defenseless prey? That was unsettling; confusing even. That was about as alien as it could get.

“Thank you for the ride,” John said, softer than he would have liked. And he didn’t know why the moment felt so delicate, why his hands fell cold but his body rose hot and his head was swimming with dizzying thoughts, but he took a deep breath, trying his very best not to let his chest shake so profusely. “I hope to see you at one of next week’s meetings. I think it might do you some good.”

When had this happened? When had John began to care more about how his actions affected someone else than about his own gratification? James stared back at him, searching, silent, and then finally the connection found its breaking point. James traded John for some imaginary spot on the dashboard, and John tried to force down whatever it was that had lodged itself deep in the center of his ribcage. He took one last puff of his cigarette before exhaling rather forcefully and putting the butt out on the bottom of his shoe.

“Drive safe,” he said with a glance, pulling at the handle of the door.

He got out without a single word from James, something he hadn’t quite noticed until the clap of the car door behind him rang ominously through the air between them. John didn’t know why his hands were shaking as he flicked his cigarette toward the trash heap on the curb, but he swallowed what little saliva he had and fought the urge to look back at the car, multiplying the distance between himself and the very thing he had wanted most. He couldn’t. Not with James Flint. And that thought was unnerving by virtue of its profoundly unknown implications.

When he got into his apartment he let out a breathy moan and shut the door with a wearied lean against it. He stood there for a moment, painstakingly still, with nothing but the flutter of his eyelids and the faint rise and fall of his heavy chest to disturb his racing thoughts. What the fuck was that? What the hell had just happened? Why the fuck was he alone in his apartment? That had never been part of the plan.

He needed another cigarette.

John fished out his shiny silver lighter before his jacket took flight toward his couch. He stepped into the kitchen to fetch himself a beer, placing the lip of the grooved cap against the edge of his counter and popping it off with one quick downward jerk. The bubbling overflow fizzled against his lips but was promptly replaced with a dutifully earned and extremely necessary joint.

Marijuana was definitely not John’s thing, but he’d run out of percocet a week and a half ago and his leg was a constant bother. Charles had suggested once that John try a certain strain to see if it would help him to sleep at night, but it’d made him paranoid beyond belief and he’d vowed to never do it again. This particular spliff, however, had been left by Jack upon John’s kitchen island with the friendly reminder that it was nowhere near as strong as what Charles had given him. John was hesitant, but right at that moment he needed all the help he could get.

Crawling out onto his fire escape, John set his beer down and pulled the top half of his hair back into a half-hearted bun. He flicked his lighter, the click of the metal and the heat of the flame working on him like dogs to a dinner bell. He leaned against the rail and took the deepest breath he’d taken all night, half weed smoke, half oxygen, and almost coughed out his body’s response.

The chilly night air helped to distract him as he ached in ways he surely wasn’t used to. It wasn’t physical, and the discomfort of knowing it was all his own doing only made the sensation unbearable. What the fuck exactly happened inside that car? John _had_ him. Come to think of it, it was actually quite cruel; the man was silently begging for John’s permission and John left him sitting there, undone. Was it a choice? Maybe a miscalculation? Was John afraid? Christ. It was only sex. Since when had that ever meant more than a little sweat and an awkwardly trite morning after?

John took another pull from his joint and felt an easy calmness sinking through him. That was all he’d been aiming for, opting to extinguish the flame and save the rest for when his anxiety might be climbing toward a similar peak. It was okay. He was still the same person, he’d just… taken a different route this time. He was allowed to do that, right?

He took a sip of his beer and turned to look up at the moon, then down at the street where he’d thought James had left him, except the car was still parked in the same exact spot.

His forehead creased with concern. He squinted, bracing against the railing to lean over a bit and make sure that his eyes weren’t deceiving him. Maybe the car had stalled. Maybe John should call him - but then the headlights were on, and he could see the exhaust fumes floating through the crisp, dark air. James was just sitting in his car for some reason, a reason that John soon felt all of his fibers lighting up with the immediate need to know. He pulled out his phone and started to call but settled on a text instead.

 **John:** _Flat 7B_

An ellipsis appeared as if James were typing, but it disappeared just as quickly, and a mere moment later the faint rumble of the engine below had disappeared too. James’ car door swung open and John looked on as the man hesitated to get out. It felt almost voyeuristic to watch him: James swinging the door shut and walking halfway across the street, stopping, turning back, pausing, pushing forward. John had almost wanted to call out to him, to lighten James’ load with a joke about it, but he’d feared it might’ve just embarrassed the man.

Instead, John tucked his half-smoked spliff behind his ear, crawled back through his window, lighter and beer in hand, and walked through his house to make sure it was presentable. He probably should have done that before he’d went out that night, seeing as though he’d had every intention of bringing James back afterward, but he figured the state of his bedroom would be the only thing that would actually matter. He grabbed a throw pillow from one couch and tossed it onto another. It was weird honestly, standing in the middle of his living room, eyes wandering thoughtfully over those mundane things stowed in his apartment which had become almost invisible with their everyday familiarity. What might these things look like upon first viewing? What did they say about him? He should’ve taken out the trash.

He flipped on a light and surveyed his bathroom, making a beeline for the empty percocet bottle that taunted him from the sink and hiding it somewhere in his medicine cabinet. He then closed the mirrored door to look himself over. He was nervous. Fuck. He didn’t know why. A few gulps of beer should help, a swallow to match every knock that boomed through his apartment.

A breath cycled in then out with the kind of gust that puffed out John’s cheeks as he made for the door. He stuffed his lighter into his pocket and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. Why were they sweating? What should he say when he opened the door? Should he let James talk first? Maybe make a joke? _Holy fuck. Shit. Fuck._

“Hey,” he tried to say once he pulled the door open but it came out practically whispered. It was unintentional. A side effect from the smoke and the malt and barley coating his tonsils. John cleared his throat. “You alright?”

James’ eyes had never looked more green than they were in that notably tentative moment. He was leaning against the doorframe, head slightly lowered, making it feel as though he were looking up at John, and the stark contrast of amber lashes played merciless tricks with the sea of color.

A second later, “I thought...” James paused, blinked, stuffed his fidgety hands into the pockets of his coat and lifted his head a tiny fraction. “It’s still early,” he shrugged.

John smiled, bigger than he would have liked, but. “It is,” he nodded. “Do you want to come in?” 

James shouldered past John and took a few steps into the space where the kitchen and living room met. John looked him over from behind before shutting the door and locking it.

“Do you want a beer?” he asked, holding up his bottle. James turned to look at him. “Shit. I’m sorry. Should I not ask you that?”

“It’s fine,” James said with the beginning of a grin which John hoped meant that James had found his blunder charming and not completely idiotic. “And yes, I would like one.”

John fetched it, opened it, and walked it over to James, holding it out in such a way that James probably could have grabbed it without John having to pull his thumb and index finger from beneath James’ hand. But he definitely didn’t mind that in the least.

He watched James take it all in: John’s cream kitchen cabinets and marble countertops, his black leather couches and patterned accent pillows, the acoustic guitar settled into the corner of the room beside his floor to ceiling bookshelf, the sketchbook on the table. Shit, he should have hidden that. He was a terrible artist.

“I was on the fire escape when I texted you,” John shared, edging past James and setting his beer onto his coffee table in exchange for a pack of cigarettes. “I go out there to smoke and think from time to time. Would you care to join me?”

“Sure,” James said just before a sip of beer.

He hadn’t shared that with another person before - his love for the cool city air on his skin and his view of the stars from above the street lights was a private thing reserved only for John whenever he’d felt the sudden urge to escape from his life. Ironically, being suspended so high in the air brought him right back down to earth. So when James climbed through the window behind him, it’d almost felt like John invited him in twice - once into his home, then into his life.

John leaned forward, the frigid metal of the railing sinking cool into his forearms. The moon wasn’t completely full yet - another night of waxing was needed to settle into that phase - but its brilliant light still managed to threaten most of the smaller stars. He took in a breath and let it out slowly. “I love it up here,” he said toward the sky.

James immediately began to study him, wordless and intense. John looked down for a moment, the urge to meet the eyes which he already knew were waiting for him being far greater than his sophomoric need to play this whole thing cool and aloof. Eventually, he peeked off to the side, curiosity getting the final say in that matter.

“What?” he asked quietly.

“I’m sorry,” said James. “You just sounded like... you just - reminded me of someone.”

John stared. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”

He lit his cigarette as James’ gaze fell away, but the act of smoking wasn’t doing very much to calm his nerves or quell his oral fixation. His beer was almost empty too.

It was one thing to be nervous - John was certainly no stranger to anxiety, smoking damn near half a pack of cigarettes before any one of The Gallows’ performances - but it was another thing entirely to be fearful. He was intimidated. And John didn’t _get_ intimidated.

He decided to fill the silence. “So where you from, James?” he asked, a small huff from behind his bottle relaying distaste with his own question.

“Shit, have we descended into your favorite type of smalltalk already?”

John nodded, a soft chuckle casting light upon his obvious insecurity. “It’s what I do when I’m nervous apparently.”

James fiddled with his beer bottle, dangling it aimlessly over the railing which he was now leaning upon also. “Why are you nervous?”

“Honestly?”

James nodded, and John wondered at what point over the course of the night he had started to let down his own guard too. He leaned his shoulder into James’, turned his head toward him as if he were about to tell him a secret. “I truly have zero fucking idea how to entertain a guest when I have clothes on.”

A modest laugh began with James before it circulated between them, the sound of it acting as the type of warmth necessary to break the proverbial ice surrounding such unchartered territory.

“You don’t have to entertain me,” James shared, his grin fading into a comforting sincerity.

“No?”

He shook his head. “You do enough performing,” he said, turning toward John and reaching out to take hold of the necklace which had seemed to taunt him so much earlier. James lifted the pendant to examine it further. “I’d be quite content with just your company.”

A wanton spark spread itself through John’s middle. He looked down at James’ hand then back over at him. There were boundaries set up, weren’t there? Boundaries James had made clear back in the restaurant. But this, initiating physical contact, was this James’ attempt at toeing those lines?

John felt himself turn toward him, a moment of weakness against his better judgment. One hand tightened around his beer bottle as the other brought his cigarette to his lips, using it as a sort of barricade against what he’d really wanted to do with them. He angled his head a bit in order to keep from blowing smoke in James’ face, then waited for James to look up from the pendant, eager to find his eyes again.

They stood that way for a moment, fretful energy morphing into a coy contemplation. If James wanted to blur those lines, John didn’t really have much reserved in the way of actual denial. He could keep his own desires in check, sure - but being fucking seduced? That was an entirely different story.

“Well…” John started, almost inaudible. “Here I am.”

James’ pleasure with John’s response took the shape of a shy half-smile immediately followed by a rather large swallow of beer. He finally met John’s gaze, leaving the necklace to slip from his fingers and thud gently against John’s chest.

“That sounds like an invitation,” he replied, setting his beer bottle down upon a wrung of the ladder which led up to the fire escape above them.

John took another puff of his cigarette while watching James work himself out of his big blue coat. Broad shoulders and chest muscles twisted and fought against the cover of his fitted black t shirt and _Christ. Please tell me that he isn’t flirting right now._

“It can be whatever the fuck you want it to be,” John encouraged, tossing away a cigarette that was only halfway smoked.

James draped the heavy fabric over the side of the fire escape, keeping his eyes fixed on John the entire time. He picked up his beer, but despite his overly practiced composure became noticeably tense. John took note of the distance James increased between them, how he leaned back into the brick wall directly across from John now, and how he held his beer out in front of him as if it were a shield.

John cocked his head to the side, a wave of compassion barely stifling the fire within. He hadn’t meant to intimidate him. He didn’t even mean to take back the power he’d given James by way of his very own reticence. John was simply overcome with his own primal urges and the flames which the man before him had seemed to be making an experiment of stoking. James was knocking on a dangerous door, but didn’t seem to want John to come completely unhinged.

“What are you feeling right now?” John heard himself ask.

“Uncertainty,” James admitted, softly, and after a fairly timid pause.

John inched a bit closer. “What else? Like - physically.”

James exhaled. “Tension,” he disclosed, then after a few erratic blinks, “anxiety.”

John finished off his beer, setting it on the window ledge and using that as an excuse to get closer. And perhaps he shouldn’t - invading the man’s space was probably the worst move John could make - but fuck, how he wished that he could just touch him. He’d even settle for only being touched at this point. He’d keep his fucking hands to himself if it meant that he could feel James’ skin against his again, in whatever capacity he’d be able to share it.

John stepped in front of James and rested a hand against the wall behind him, just above James’ left shoulder. “And how about now?” he pushed.

James’ jaw tightened, briefly looking over at John’s arm. “Trapped,” he said faintly.

“Are you threatened?” John whispered.

“No.”

A slight bend worked its way into the arm John had bracing against the wall. He inched closer still, so close that the fronts of their shoes were now touching, and the hand James had wrapped around his bottle gradually found itself pressed into John’s stomach. “And now?”

James took in a breath, audibly shaken, but he kept his eyes locked onto John’s. “Afraid.”

“Of me?”

“Of this,” he corrected, glancing down at John’s mouth. “Your… touch. Your energy. It’s fucking suffocating.”

John raised his other hand and pressed it into the bricks above James’ right shoulder. “Should I back away?”

“No,” James said quickly.

“Why not?”

John deliberately let his tongue wet his lips and watched as James’ attention raced toward the daring suggestion. “Is there something else that you’re feeling?” he asked, though he’d already known the answer.

James swallowed. “Aroused,” he confessed, slowly finding John’s eyes again.

The amount of air in John’s lungs slowly doubled as he tried his absolute best to stay calm. Aroused? Shit. John was just getting started. James had no fucking idea what aroused felt like yet.

“You should do something about that,” John provoked, slowly shifting his feet so that the insides of his boots were now straddling the outsides of James’ shoes.

“What would you have me do?” James questioned.

The prospects excited John to no end. He pulled James’ beer bottle from his hand and set it beside his own on the windowsill. “Whatever the fuck you want,” he answered.

John watched the other man’s wheels turn. He’d pushed James far enough, he knew, and anything further would be too risky in such a volatile state. So he waited, hungry but patient, thinking of all the delicious ways in which he would drive James crazy if only the man would give him the fucking chance.

“You could use me,” said John. “Whatever it is that torments you, whatever it is that you’re running from, I’d be more than fucking willing to be a momentary escape.”

James stared, not even so much as a blink to disturb the intensity of it. Eventually, and just as hesitantly as when he’d reached for John’s arm on that tabletop, James reached out and grabbed a hold of the joint which John had tucked behind his ear. John shivered with the brief contact, forgetting that the damned thing was even there. Then, with a shaky sigh and a shivering hand, James pulled John’s hair completely loose.

Chills zipped down John’s neck and shoulders and an uncontrollable twitch awakened his cock. If James knew what was good for him he’d do well to tread very lightly here; John’s scalp was an erogenous zone that would surely get them both in trouble. He lowered his chin and shook his hair free, then looked up at James awaiting further instruction. A smile started but wasn’t finished, James opting instead to hold the joint out to John in the narrow space between them.

The back of John’s hand rubbed the front of James’ thigh as John dug in his pocket to retrieve his lighter. That was how close they were standing now. Close enough for John to take into account the swell at the seam of James’ jeans also. But instead of simply taking the joint from James, John tilted his head, wrapping his lips around it and letting his mustache brush against the sides of James’ fingers. James flinched but didn’t let go, so John brought the lighter up to the other end. And he wondered what James was feeling right then. He wondered if it was too much for him, but he flicked the lighter anyway, catching James’ fingers between the heat of the flame and the warmth of his lips.

John leaned his head back and blew a long stream of dusty grey smoke into the air just above James’ head. He then shut his eyes, asking any and every divine being in existence to give him the strength to restrain himself because James’ free hand was now at his collarbone and sliding a thumb down the length of his neck, answering all of John’s earlier questions.

It was truly amazing what touch could do, especially when one wasn’t allowed to touch back. But he had to stay focused, stay on James’ level. If he pushed - no, he didn’t want to think about that.

“Did you want some?” John asked, looking down at the joint that James was still holding between them.

James barely shook his head. “I’ve never done it before.”

“It’s kind of like… being wrapped in a warm blanket. It’s calming. It helps you focus. It -” he focused on James’ lips, “it’s keeping me from devouring you right now to be honest.”

John watched every curve of the mouth across from him as it asked, “You want to devour me?”

He sighed, peering back into James’ eyes. “ ‘Devouring’ you is fuck all compared to the things that I wanna do to you.”

James finished a grin this time and John took the joint from him, an idea forming in the back of his mind that had been almost too ambitious to be given a second thought. If it was an escape that he’d wanted, John knew many ways in which to oblige James; just because sex couldn’t be one of them didn’t mean that there weren’t others ways to get inside of each other.

“Close your eyes,” John directed, gentle but resolute. And James didn’t exactly obey right away, but John wasn’t about to repeat himself. He watched James as he confronted his distrust, battling his own demons just to be able to submit to the simplest of commands. And fuck if that wasn’t the hottest shit John had learned about him since the first day he’d met him… James _always_ had to be in control, probably didn’t know how to function in any other capacity, and John held back a knowing grin at the thought of just how he would conquer this man. _Oh, you will submit to me, James Flint. Just you fucking wait and see._

John’s eyes narrowed but his patience stretched on, with no doubt in his mind that James would comply. He parsed through the other man’s apprehensive stare, getting right at that thing which kept James in arrest and from surrendering himself completely. Easing a forearm against the brick wall behind them, John leaned in and curled toward James’ ear.

“Let me be your escape,” he hummed. And it was just soft enough, just close enough to feel James start to tremble beneath him again.

When he pulled back and looked, James’ eyes were closed.

John made sure to keep his voice low and steady. “I want you to follow my instructions,” he started. “No questions, no hesitations. Do you understand?”

James nodded, swallowed, parting his lips to take in more air than he seemed to believe his nose would allow him to do.

“I’m going to touch you,” he said delicately, “and when I do, I want you to slowly inhale.”

John felt a fist clench into his shirt, evidence enough that James was still with him. He put the lit end of the joint between his own lips, careful not to burn himself. Inhaling through his nose, he cautiously lifted James’ chin, blowing through the body of the joint and streamlining a soft cloud of smoke into James’ mouth.

At the bottom of his breath and the top of James’, John removed the joint and let go of James’ chin, instructing the man to hold his breath. He’d learned this particular smoking technique while on holiday in Miami years ago, and as he scanned James’ face, keeping an eye out for its subtle ticks, John realized just how much he wanted to stop and tell James that ridiculous little story. He wanted to share so much with him.

He told James to exhale instead, drinking in the freckles and stubble surrounding the other man’s mouth. As James blew out, John sucked in, their lips mere inches apart.

A sigh left John’s lungs next, the sound of it housing a kind of fulfillment which had honestly surprised him. The intimacy of such a moment was something he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. He’d intentionally forgotten how much he truly enjoyed connecting like this, choosing instead to fill the insatiable void with the sum of far less meaningful interactions - sex, of course, being his primary substitute.

James opened his eyes, bringing John back to this moment living between them, this moment that triggered all of these things which John swore to himself he’d always keep locked away.

“I feel dizzy,” he muttered.

John smiled. “Well, that’s certainly a part of the appeal.” He took another drag as James watched him, feeling sufficiently lifted and completely at ease.

“Do it again,” James requested.

John didn’t really mean to feel so accomplished right then, but he held back a satisfied, almost smug grin, then obliged his partner in crime. It’d started the same: John inhaling. John lifting James’ chin to share in his exhale. James taking it in and holding his breath. James leaning his head back against the brick wall. But something was different the second time around. The tense line of James’ shoulder was now slumped in relaxation. The fist wrapped in John’s shirt was now warm, and flat, and even against John’s ribs. The space between their lips felt overwhelmingly sensual, shrinking and warming with every second that passed. And John cupped both sides of James’ face in that moment, breathing him in with reckless abandon. But as soon as John lost his wits James flinched, his cheek muscle jumping in protest to the brazen contact.

John let go instantly.

James slowly bowed his head.

“I’m sorry,” floated between them, almost simultaneously.

Well, it wasn’t a cure; John knew that. And it wasn’t like he’d expected to fix the man. So he didn’t quite understand why James seemed to think that his behavior warranted an apology. John was the only one who’d fucked up.

“Stop it,” he said back.

James shook his head. “My body just doesn’t - my mind - fuck. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

“Shit. Who the hell does?” John shrugged. “I’ll let you in on a well kept secret: We’re all mad here, mate. Some of us are just better at hiding it than others.”

An urge to lift James’ head came and went, escaping into the endless silence. John backed away from him, taking one last puff of weed before dropping the roach into his empty beer bottle. On his exhale, he leaned into the wall beside James, figuring they’d both do well with some fresher air.

James turned his head to look at him, eyes hooded with something John knew all too well. “Come back,” he let out.

John felt his lip curl but it wasn’t from pleasure. “I’d love to, but I honestly don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“But I want you to,” James insisted, trading his back for a shoulder against the wall. He reached over and took hold of John’s necklace again, this time pulling it gently toward him.

John bit his lip and grabbed James’ hand. “Well, the rest of you says otherwise.”

And he could see it - James fighting himself, the flush of his hand betraying his desires as he struggled to get out from behind the bars of his own personal prison. He was pushing himself, trying to will his body past its own physical capabilities - and it was flattering, honestly - but John couldn’t let it cloud his judgment.

“Please don’t take it the wrong way,” John said softly. “It’s not that I don’t want to.”

Something in James’ eyes shifted with the apparent sting of John’s subtle rejection, revealing the kind of anguish that was normally reserved for the depths of utter solitude. John realized in that moment that he had completely failed the man. He’d been trying so hard to provide that escape but instead had awoken something in them which neither man had been prepared for.

What if James’ touch aversion was because he’d been subconsciously punishing himself? What if, on some deeper level, James didn’t feel like he deserved a soft touch, or the simple compassion all humans needed but were too damaged to accept? What if the marijuana had dulled the part of James that told him he was unworthy of pleasure, but his body was too locked into its habits to allow him to explore it? What if James was only pushing himself because he was under the influence?

John let go of James’ hand and James let go of John’s necklace.

“I don’t know when I became this,” James said, looking down at the pink streaks that were now deepening over his hand. It was mostly to himself, it seemed, a personal observation that just so happened to be voiced aloud. “I should go.”

“No.” John shook his head. “No. That’s the last thing that you should do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop fucking apologizing,” John said firmly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have tested your boundaries like that. _I’m_ the only one who should be sorry.”

James’ breath deepened. The freckled skin at his neck had begun blushing before his hand did, though John thought James was only just now beginning to notice.

“I have to go.”

“Hold on,” pled John, holding his hands out but pulling them back as to not touch James again. “Just tell me what’s going on. What are you feeling?”

James squeezed his eyes shut. “I need air.”

“Alright… alright. Just - lift your head up. Hey, we’re outside, yeah? There’s plenty of air out here. And you're safe, alright? You don’t have to run. You’re not in any danger.”

It’d been quite a while since John had had a proper panic attack, but he’d learned a thing or two about them over the course of his rehabilitation. The hasty breaths James was starting to take, the way he was rubbing his own hands as if they were going numb on him, the inclination toward escape - his fight or flight response kicking into high gear - these were all things which John knew intimately. And for the briefest of moments he wished that he’d had someone to walk him through it like this, but that thought was stamped out before it could infect him any further.

He shouldn’t have fucking touched him.

“I’m sorry,” James said again, resting his hands atop his head. “I thought I could do this… I thought...” He bent forward, pressing his hands into his thighs and trying to catch his breath.

John grabbed James’ coat and draped it around his shoulders, not knowing what else to do or say. This was all his fucking fault. How could he have been so goddamn stupid? _Shotgunning weed, John? Really?_ He knelt down in front of James, listening to his choppy breaths and feeling completely helpless. _Fuck_. He shouldn’t. Have fucking. Touched him.

“I’m here…” John whispered to him, but James didn’t look up. “I’m here, James… until you tell me to do otherwise.”

Anyone else would have run at the sight of it, as so many had done to John throughout his life. The darkness, the redness, every manner of suffering invariably faced by all human-beings. John had had people ‘try’. He’d had people pretend to want to pull him kicking and screaming from the darkness, when all they’d really needed to do was hold his hand and muster up the courage to walk him through. People had promised John that they'd never leave, and people had always broken that promise. Everybody leaves. But John understood. People have their own demons, and sometimes those demons just simply did not play well with others.

But everyone liked John when he was smiling, when he was the life of the party, when he gave them the confidence they needed to face _their_ own demons, when he held _their_ hands and walked them through _their_ fires. Then it would get real. Then they would begin to see what lived just beyond the surface of the selfless smiles and the gregarious disposition. And that - that was when everyone would leave. Every single one. Nobody could handle it. Nobody wanted to. And the worst part of it was that they’d all move on, patting themselves on the back and telling themselves that they'd done everything they could, when really they were just fucking cowards who were too afraid to love John the way he loved them. He was so much more than his demons and his darkness. They never knew him. They only thought they did. And John understood that, fuck, he wore that god damned albatross with pride… but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

So when John looked at James, he didn’t see all the ways that the man in front of him needed to be changed, or fixed, or fucking criticized for the way he coped with being regrettably human. He saw a person, beautiful, turbulent, real, and in need of nothing more than compassion and acceptance.       

“Look at me,” John said.

But James didn’t oblige him. “I’m sorry,” he breathed instead. “I have to go.”

John stood up in front of James, a sense of utter defeat and failure flooding the crevices of his better judgment. He had to fix this. He _had_ to.

“No.”

James finally looked up at him, but it was probably because John had stepped in front of the window, blocking James’ escape route. “Please, get out of my way,” he said, but the tremor in his voice masked any real conviction.

No,” John reaffirmed.

The panic in James’ eyes grew, darting about the fire escape in search of words or some alternate means of deliverance. And John half believed he’d made a mistake as he watched James turn himself about and actually consider climbing down the fire escape ladder, but then he remembered that someone had made that same ‘mistake’ with him, too.

John was a runner. He had been all his life. And he didn’t need panic attacks or anxiety to give him any excuses for it. Being adrift was honestly more comfortable than being happy, because all that being happy meant was having something to lose. Someone had gotten him to stop running once, someone had made him happy, and he’d lost her too but fuck if he wasn’t a better man because of it - because someone had grabbed him while he trembled, because someone had held him soft and still, because someone had showed him that he didn’t have to run away in order to keep himself safe. Because someone had made the mistake of caring.

So, because of all of these things, and because John was an anomoly who made bad decisions all the time, he reached out and grabbed James’ face, staring directly into his eyes. “You, James Flint, are a breath of fresh air in a ridiculously suffocating world,” he said, “and I don’t need to know what you’re battling to know that you’ve been making the choice to fight for a long fucking time. To face one’s demons - that is a bloody miracle... and incredibly fucking brave.” And John didn’t know where these words were coming from, but he looked into James’ eyes and knew that he’d needed to hear them just as much as they’d needed to be said. “I know that you’re tired,” he continued. “I see it. I’ve been there. But you choose to keep going and that… that says everything that I need to know about you. You are absolutely _not_ alone.”

James shut his eyes and spread his hands out over John’s, pushing them into his own cheeks and keeping them there through the troubled sea he was currently weathering. He inhaled sharply and gusted out his surrender, dropping his forehead onto John’s shoulders and shaking violently against him.

And John held him. He held him through the entirety of it.

  
  
  


Water droplets beaded onto John’s skin as he ruffled a towel through his damp hair. He flung the cloth over his shoulder, wiping his face with one end, then sitting on the edge of his bed to get to the business of putting his true leg into his false one.

The sun would be up soon, but John was truly no stranger to staying up for days at a time. He’d have some coffee and go about his morning as if nothing had really changed. No, the world hadn’t paused while James cried in his arms, and a tiny smile didn’t creep across John’s face once he entered his living room and looked over at his couch to find that same man lying there now, peacefully asleep upon one of his throw pillows.

They’d talked about so much that night, from books and music, to life and art, but John knew that they’d barely even scratched the surface. They were both deep oceans, wide and vast, both quite content with standing at each other's shallow end for now. They’d peer into the depths from a safe distance for a while, John thought. Neither of them were really in a rush to dive right in.

John hadn’t noticed how loud his coffee maker was until he heard James stir from across the room. Leather upholstery was also not exactly forgiving. 

“Would you like some coffee?” John offered, watching James slowly sit up and catch his bearings. And John could definitely get used to starting every day with that puffy face and the confused look which followed. James Flint was goddamn adorable.

“How long was I out,” he asked, hoarse.

“Just a couple hours. I put all your credit cards back, but I think I might have maxed out the Visa.”

James replied through his nose, his head slightly tilted as if he hadn’t worked up the strength to hold it completely upright yet. He took a deep breath and groaned to his feet. “I should get going.”

“You don’t have to,” John said rather quickly, but he didn’t know where he was going with that so he dropped his eyes down to his coffee and stirred. “I mean… I don’t plan on sleeping so, if you needed a few more hours before it’s safe for you to drive you’re more than welcome to use my bed -” he looked up from his cup, “- unless, you have somewhere to be.”

James studied him. “Nowhere to be, just, wouldn’t want to be an inconvenience.”

“Well,” John took a sip of his coffee, “if I didn’t want you here I would have asked you to leave a long time ago. I have absolutely zero qualms with kicking people out of my apartment. I think… I think I actually quite enjoy it.”

James walked over to the kitchen island, his sudden seriousness forcing all the playfulness from John’s mood. “Why don’t you sleep?” he asked.

John shrugged. “It’s just difficult. When I try I only ever get a few hours, unless I’m crashing after a few days. It’s always harder toward the end of the month once I run out of--” He cut himself off, glancing at James then back down at his cup. “There isn’t really much relief for someone who has an itch or a pain in a foot that doesn’t even fucking exist.”

John wondered if James could hear the exasperation in his voice, then immediately thought it was stupid to do so because of fucking course he could. He almost hid behind his coffee cup, feeling profoundly exposed in that moment.

“What do you take,” James pressed.

John balked at answering, purposeful blinks masking his discomfort. Then finally, “Percocet.”

He searched James eyes for any shred of the judgment he had been expecting, but wasn’t sure if he’d found it or not.

“And you run out before the month is out,” James repeated. “How many are you taking a day?”

John looked over toward the side of the room but it was at nothing in particular. “I may be taking more than I’m prescribed,” he confessed, finding James’ eyes once more, “but I highly doubt that it’s a problem.”

James’ brows inched together, slight but noticeable. “I didn’t say that it was.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The look on James’ face at the tone he’d just taken with him made John’s stomach feel queasy. He swallowed, then remembered that he had coffee instead of his own spit for that. He brought his cup up to his lips.

“I’m not judging you,” James said evenly, leaning his forearms onto the countertop. “You don’t need to defend yourself.”

“I don’t _fff_ \- I’m not--” John pulled both lips into his mouth, as if he could bite back his words by clamping their escape hatch shut. “Why are you asking me all of these bloody questions?”

James put a hand over his mouth, smoothing his mustache while he thought about how to respond. “I’m sorry,” he decided, letting his fingers flick outward before curling them over his lips and resting his chin on his thumb. “I was just trying to get to know your situation better. I thought maybe I could help you.”

“Help me?” John scoffed. “Why? Are you a fucking psychiatrist or something?”

After a rather awkward silence (one in which John lamented his tone and remembered Jack bringing up his anger issues less than ten feet from this very spot), James said, “A Psychologist actually.”

“What?”

“I’m a Psychologist. I also teach Psychology at--”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” John interrupted, and he wasn’t certain if it was anger or disbelief which colored his tone this time.

“No,” James said matter-of-factly.

“So… So, what? What - you’ve been analyzing me all this time?”

“Only in the beginning,” James admitted, but it didn’t take the sting from the words. “But it wasn’t personal. I do it with everyone. It’s amazingly hard to turn off.”

“I - told you things. _Personal_ things. I let you in… You should have fucking told me.”

“You didn’t ask,” James defended. “You said it was one of your least favorite ways to--”

“I know what the fuck I said!”

He was being irrational. He knew it. And he was certain that James knew it too. Why had he let his guard down? He was too exposed now. James would see it all now and he’d leave. He’d leave just like everyone else who had gotten too close and hadn’t been able to handle it, just like everyone else who couldn’t change him, who couldn’t fix him. James wouldn’t stick around for the roses hidden beneath John’s cypresses. No one did. You’d think that John would have gotten used to it by now.

“John, I’m--”

“Are you trying to fucking _fix_ me?” he whimpered, embarrassed by his own ridiculous emotions.

“No.” James shook his head, straightening himself up from his leaned position against the kitchen island. “John--”

“Swear it,” he demanded.

And he knew that he had no real right to his ill temper, that his outrage was misplaced and overblown, but he wasn’t about to be diplomatic with his emotions now. In a strange way, he felt violated, threatened even, and all he’d wanted now was to rid himself of the feeling or of the cause. He didn’t really care which went first.

Ok, that was a lie. He did care. But fuck everything in existence if he could actually get himself to admit that.

“Swear that I’m not just some - fucking experiment,” John said, wanting it to sound like a demand but it being too shaky to be believable.

“You’re not,” said James, gentle but stern. He looked squarely into John’s eyes. “You’re not. I fucking swear it.”

John surveyed the kitchen, trying to process his pockets of distrust and apathy. When he couldn’t find any other way to hide from James’ disarming attention, but didn’t have the wherewithal to ask him to leave, he turned his frustration toward his coffee cup, launching it into the sink and watching it shatter across the metal.

James had said the words, but John didn’t believe him.

John clutched the edge of the sink, letting his head hang as he took in a breath. “The bedroom is through there if you want to stay.” John gestured with an effortless flick of his thumb, then lifted his head to talk over his shoulder. “And the door is still in the same place if you don't.”

He pulled himself from the kitchen sink and rounded the island, making for his pack of cigarettes and eyeing his fire escape. And he did all of this without so much as glancing James’ way. In truth, John didn’t want to know if James would choose to stay or go. His only desire right that second rested in the need to cleanse himself of any and everything that had made emotions even remotely possible. He wished that he had more weed.

“Stay with me,” James’ voice rang out, cutting through the silence and John’s avoidance with an accompanying touch.

Fingers wrapped around John’s wrist before he’d turned to acknowledge them, sliding down to his hand and threading carefully between his knuckles. John acknowledged the sensation first, shutting his eyes and sighing before looking back at James. He was relieved, he was confused, he was fucking overwhelmed.

Wordless, and uncharacteristically exhausted, John led James to his bedroom. The sky had shaken the night away, but the heavy drapes still left the place in a war of shadows and listless light. He slowly let go of James’ hand, walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down without looking at him. And John had never taken off his prosthetic in front of anyone before, but his hands had already begun the routine of pressing the pins together before he’d found the presence of mind to remember that he wasn’t alone this time. He paused, wondering if James was staring at him, but when he looked up the man was already making his way to the other side of the bed.

John blinked at the floor, slightly angling an ear to get an idea of James’ position behind him without actually having to look over his shoulder. He thought about just sleeping with the leg on, but he’d already detached the liner from the socket and to put it back in now would mean a series of clicks that would draw more attention to it than he was comfortable with. So, he pulled the leg off, then the liner, but decided to leave the thin sleeve on over his stump - a feeble attempt at maintaining what little sense of privacy he’d felt he had left.

He noticed the bed give way as James settled onto it, the sound of two shoes hitting the floor being enough to cause John’s heartbeat to become something he wondered if James could hear too. He didn’t know why he couldn’t turn around, why he couldn’t lift his legs up onto the bed, why he couldn’t lay back and just shut his eyes, or pretend, like he always did, that he had it all figured out.

A sigh swirled behind John, as well as the sound of fabric shifting upon fabric, and John knew that James was officially lying down in his bed now. The irony. Just half the day before he’d wanted so badly to get James here, but the sound of the man behind him was more bitter than sweet now, crawling up John’s back and along his shoulders with mostly prickly limbs.

Or maybe… maybe it was only James’ hand as it rested lightly in the middle of John’s back which was causing him to shudder.

John hoisted the rest of himself upon the bed without bothering to look back, a bit too amazed with everything to add the sight of James in his sheets to an already staggering equation. He curled into himself, pulling the covers up over his head like a child afraid of the darkness. And he wasn’t sure why he felt so anxious, so lost, so fucking naked right then, but the warmth of James’ body as it shared his space, the languid slide of skin and bone as James’ foot slid over his ankle, the subtle nudge of pressure as James’ lungs expanded against John’s spine, all of it reminding John that sometimes things just happened which couldn’t be explained or controlled. And most times, no, people didn’t change, but also, sometimes, they did.

He slept soundly for once, with James at his back, grateful for the other man’s pacifying weight upon the foot which John still owned, and the temporary, albeit cherished, belay of complaints from the one that he’d lost.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just need to send thanks to the Alpha and Omega... and also the Beta [xJuniperx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xJuniperx/pseuds/xJuniperx). This would not be possible without her enthusiasm and constant fucking reassurance that what I'm doing is even worth a damn. I appreciate you more than you know. ♡
> 
> I really hope you all like this chapter. It was a lot of fun to write although also quite a pain. But thanks for reading! ^_^
> 
> Love & Rockets.


	9. High Up Above and Down Below

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue Montage.

_“Everyone has created a portrait of themselves, the portrait of an honest, charitable person. We have adapted our existence according to that portrait and from that portrait we act and react accordingly.”_

_~W. M. Samuel Aun Weor_

 

“The Hidden Side of our Psychology,” James recited, glancing at the title above the quote being projected onto the board behind him. He gave the students a moment to read the paragraph before he continued. “An interesting quote, and we’ve certainly spoken of the theme of false identity before, but if we are guilty of worshiping any golden idols, it is the golden idol of the self. As humans, we tend to place ourselves on pedestals, subsequently creating unrealistic images of who we are. The problem with that being, of course, that once we concoct this false sense of self, everything we do is based on it - our entire lives are spent acting and reacting according to who we _think_ we are.”

James paused to establish eye contact with a few of the pupils staring back. He took them all in in a matter of seconds, their faces, their body language, their level of engagement, the one student in the back left corner of the room on his cell phone, the young woman off to the right blinking at him through her wire-framed glasses, the young man with his chin up and his fingers pressed against the keys of his laptop in anticipation, the kid three rows back obnoxiously chewing bubblegum.

The board behind him was true black, lit up only with an image of an almost crescent moon and the pale blue lettering of the quote resting in its shadowed face. James reached over and pressed a key on his computer to change the slide. “If you direct your attention to the image, you’ll likely notice that only a small portion of the moon’s sphere is visible. I chose this image for a reason. Since the rotational and orbital periods of the moon are the same, _this_ face of the moon is the _only_ face ever presented to us - it’s the _only_ one we ever see. We, consequently, have no idea what’s going on on the other side.”

A moment of guilt crept in, strong but fleeting. It was a lie what he’d told John. James’ tattoo _had_ meant something to him when he’d gotten it. He pushed the thought away and continued.

“Like with the moon, we are only conscious or aware of a very small part of our own psychology - the portion which is illuminated to us. But there lies another part, a hidden part, where egos are not visible, and this part can become the winds and the waves which steer our respective ships.”

James changed the slide again to the tune of clacking computer keys and the white noise of central air conditioning. For some reason, the fluorescent lights burned warmer than usual, causing him to feel on display as if he were under the heat of a spotlight. It happened from time to time, this self-consciousness which seemingly arose out of nowhere. He picked up his water bottle and ran his fingers over the condensation pooling on the outside, then placed that hand to the back of his neck as he began his next sentence:

“The mind, intellect, even reason cannot reach the profound depths of our own subconscious…” He gave his neck a gentle squeeze. “That is why psychologists are needed in this world, in case any of you were still wondering just what the hell you were doing in this class.”

A collection of soft snickers assembled across the room. That was good. They were following along. No need to worry. James unscrewed the cap on his water bottle and took a sip.

“The dissolution of the ego,” he said after a swallow, his voice thick with newfound ease as he scratched his beard and settled into his train of thought, “our false self-image - let’s refer to it as our _persona_ \- it brings with its elusiveness another hidden danger: the danger of falling victim to the shadow-self, or… the hidden aspects of our personalities. The struggle then becomes to retain awareness of the shadow-self but _not_ identification with it.”

He set his bottle down, then leaned forward and pressed his palms flat against his desk, foregoing the confinement of the podium for a more casual approach. Maybe it was his own false sense of self, always needing to make sure that he wasn’t boring his class to death in order to solidify his success as an educator, as a person.

“What we’re going to discuss over the course of this lecture today are the problems which can arise from a false self image, the challenges often faced when a person decides to explore their own darkness, and common ways in which the ego fights to survive it all.”

A few preparatory sighs circulated as the room fell silent again. The scattered squeaks of chairs and the shuffling of papers as people shifted in their seats and prepared to absorb the lecture prompted James to take a beat before he continued again, though he didn’t quite know why he felt the need to check in with his students so often.

As he found his mental rhythm, words began to flow easier. His lectures usually lasted about 45 minutes, allotting the final 15 minutes of class to an open forum discussion of the topics addressed, the required reading, clarification on assignments, and general reprieve and digestion. By the end of this lecture, however, he’d found himself uncharacteristically weary and opted to end the class a bit earlier than usual. The subject matter was the likely culprit.

James shut down his laptop as students filed out of the room, filling his lungs with the kind of relief which only seemed possible in total isolation. He’d been exploring his own darkness for quite some time, but the twists and turns of the human psyche eluded even the most educated of seekers.

Despite the fact that it was exceedingly difficult to navigate one’s own brain _with_ one’s own brain, James refused to see a therapist of his own. He knew the way it felt when someone like him was in his care. James judged them. He saw them as weak, and he was sure he’d just be seen as the same.

He took a moment, eyes closed, ears hearkened to the quiet, then stretched his neck a bit, a futile attempt to work out the remnants of a kink which had wormed its way into a tendon just a few nights before. John had very lumpy pillows.

He’d left John’s apartment that morning, quiet and half regretful of how everything had happened, though waking up tangled in John’s hair and limbs was a pleasantry he hadn’t expected. Luckily, John was a heavier sleeper than he’d originally let on and James was able to slip away undetected, choosing to spare them both of the awkward morning after. He was sure that John would understand.

Ignoring John’s calls and texts, however, was probably not the best way for James to follow a physical disappearance. John had nursed him through a panic attack, he’d made no outward display of judgment toward him, but James just couldn’t submit to being so weak in front of someone so new, even if that someone was already proving to be all that James was pretending not to need.

“Damn. Am I late or early?”

James recognized the voice before his eyes flung open. And it was absolutely true what they said: the devil didn't come dressed in a red cape and pointy horns. He came as everything you’d ever wished for...

“What are you doing here?” James asked, his face cycling through a complex mix of surprise, confusion, and ultimately pleasure, though he thought he did a rather fine job of holding back the smile which had tried its damndest to leap over his better judgment.

John traveled down the aisle between rows of seats and James was certain that his own heartbeat had sped up to match the thumps of John’s steps as he crossed the carpeted floor.

“Well,” John started, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag over his shoulder, “I seem to have been under the misapprehension that class started at 3pm.”

James studied John from over the frame of his glasses but it wasn’t out of the confusion from moments before. It’d taken him precisely two seconds to take in John’s tone, the look in his eyes, the subtle curl of his lip, the way his wet hair fell over his shoulders and dripped onto his white t-shirt, how it stuck to his chest and reminded James of the old Rorschach inkblot tests. If he had to guess at this particular inkblot, however, it would most certainly make Sigmund Freud blush. And it would most certainly explain exactly what John was playing at in this moment.

James decided to play along. “Were you? Because I’m fairly certain Tuesday classes always begin at two.”

The footsteps coming toward James slowed in pace as John grew closer, but James’ heartbeat continued to take measures of its own. He busied himself with his laptop, pushing it into its slip and doing his best possible impression of indifference.

“Right. Of course,” John said facetiously, “and I don’t suppose that there’s any way I could make up this lecture, is there?”

James looked up from his desk. “Doubtful. But perhaps you can borrow someone’s notes. Although... it won’t help your participation mark.”

John dropped his duffle bag in front of James’ desk, feigning desperation. “There must be _something_ I can do, Professor Flint. Maybe some extra credit?” He came around the desk, trailing his fingers along the edges and corners until he was sufficiently in James’ space.

“That would be special treatment, Mr. Silver,” James warned, turning slightly toward him. “What would the other students think?”

“Nothing if they don’t know about it,” John smirked.

It was grey sweatpants this time. (This was more than a coincidence.) James pressed his hand into his desk before it started to fidget. Something about the cold marble desktop put him at ease, made him feel in control, free to look over and let his eyes roam. And he didn’t bother to be subtle about stopping to notice the way that the soft grey fabric draped itself over the outline of John’s dick.

“Say it,” John coaxed, likely reading whatever was printed on James’ face right then.

“Your hair is wet.”

John smiled. “It is.” He set his hand beside James’ on the desk as he moved in closer to him. “I’ve just come from a post-workout shower.”

James tried not to let his expression reveal his thoughts this time, thoughts of exactly what that might have looked like. “It was wet the first time I saw you,” he recalled, turning more fully toward John.

“It was.”

Glistening brown ringlets beckoned James and he relented, lifting his other hand and wrapping a damp coil around his finger.

John sighed. Slight. Calm. “It was wet the first night we spent together, too.”

James averted his gaze. “I’m…” he started under his breath. “I shouldn't have left without waking you.” He peeked up hoping John's eyes weren't still on him, but there they were, waiting, intense, focused. “And I’m sorry I haven't answered your calls or texts… I don’t--”

“I guess you'll just have to make it up to me somehow,” John said, but there was no hint of playfulness in the words anymore.

A fingertip slid down the length of James’ pinky, causing a chill to race up his entire arm. He tried to hide a shiver but John’s grin let him know how little success he'd had in such an endeavor.

Voice low, eyes dropping to James’ chest, John asked, “Am I a terrible person for loving the fact that I can make you do that?”

James stared through the tops of John’s lashes, the gaze he’d avoided just seconds before fast becoming all he was longing for now. He felt his own hand take in more of John’s hair. “Far from terrible,” he heard himself say, lungs shrinking around the words.

John thumbed the lapel of James’ suit jacket, finding the laziest possible path toward the buttons. “If you’re not careful I may just start to think that you enjoy it when I push your boundaries.”

“And what if I do?” James asked.

God. Where was this coming from - this thing which John awakened in him? James was standing there with his fingers wrapped in someone else’s hair, damp skin heating and cooling under the combination of another’s warm breath and the air surrounding them. He still hadn’t figured out what had made him stay that night, or what had made it possible for him to wrap himself around John in his bed, or just what the fuck happened to his normal state of constant anxiety whenever John has worked his voodoo on him. It was disorienting, alarming, all consuming, and James wanted nothing more than to surrender to it every single fucking time that it happened.

“If you do? Well,” John shrugged, “there’s no telling what kind of trouble we might get into.”

He lifted his chin, all but drowning James in a sea of blue innuendo, and James wondered what the small patch of hair just beneath John’s bottom lip might’ve felt like. Would it be coarse like he’d imagined John’s mustache would be, prickly and sharp against his lips? Or soft like the tufts of hair currently in his grasp, giving way underneath James’ own thirsty skin? John was tilting his head as if to offer the invitation James needed to find out, but James… James just couldn’t bring himself to accept it.

_Fuck. Why can't you just let yourself have this?_

John reached for the hand that was weaved through his curls as if he’d put James’ thoughts there himself. “It's alright,” he said, turning his head and bringing James' knuckles up to his lips instead.

James followed every single motion, trying not to breathe too deep or flinch too hard as that all too familiar tingle jolted him and the part of his hand which John had kissed went almost immediately numb.

The words probably should have provided some relief but all they’d done was make James feel a surge of sharp inadequacy. There were some parts of his body that were awakened whenever John took a chance and touched him - parts that longed to touch back, to melt into, to slide over, to press against - but still other parts would completely shut down and James could never make heads or tails of it. He didn't even know if John was still touching him because he couldn't feel anything below his wrists.

Oh - I… I'm sorry,” a voice rose from the very back of the room. It sounded farther away than when John had spoken up from the same position, and James probably would've ignored it had John not turned his own face toward the words.

“I thought you’d be - I saw your class… Forgive me,” Thomas stammered from the doorway. “Should I come back?”

James froze.

John carefully pulled James’ fingers from their curly trappings and placed his hand safely back at his side, giving it a small squeeze just before letting go. “No, I was just leaving,” he returned, then casually walked around the desk to collect his duffle bag. “Please reconsider that makeup assignment, Professor.”

James glanced at John, a faint smile playing at the other man’s lips before he turned and headed back up the aisle, every step growing closer to Thomas, every step twisting something in the pit of James’ stomach, every step pumping thick lava through James’ collapsing veins. But James hadn’t done anything wrong. He and Thomas were over, right? So, why the fuck did he feel so incriminated?

He zipped his computer bag and tried not to stare as John passed Thomas in the doorway, the most subtle of head nods exchanging between them before John disappeared from the classroom entirely. Thomas stood at the threshold for a moment before finally entering.

“Is that the man from that band? Joe…?”

“John,” James corrected, ducking his head under the strap of his satchel as he crossed it over his body.

“Right. John… Silver, isn’t it?” James didn’t bother to confirm, so Thomas took a different approach. “Are you always so chummy with your students?”

James hesitated, looking down at his desk and tapping inaudibly upon its surface. “I was just about to leave for the day,” he answered instead. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Thomas set a folder and a book onto James’ desk, clipping a bitter sigh short. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the Dean and the other department heads,” he began.  “I’m sure you’ve gotten wind of the impending budget cuts.”

A nod from James but still no eye contact, so Thomas went on, undeterred. “They’re discussing uniform salary cuts across the board, tuition hikes and the like… a fee for membership to the student recreation hall has even been considered. But there are some who feel - and I am obviously not one of them, but I am also in an overwhelmingly small minority…”

James looked up at him, finally, knowing full well where this line of ideas was headed. Diplomacy often had its ways of making Thomas adorably long winded. It was a quirk which James had always enjoyed, but right then all he’d wanted was for Thomas to get to the point.

“Layoffs,” James predicted.

Thomas blinked away, nodded. “The specific faculty under consideration wasn’t discussed, but--”

“Seniority rules,” James said. “You don’t have to explain it to me. It’s obvious I’d be on their radar.”

James met Thomas’ pale blue eyes and felt the concern waiting there for him, and for a moment he missed that look, a small, weak moment, a moment which James forced into evaporation as quickly as it’d manifested.

“There are others - staff we’ve acquired after you - and I believe they’d be reluctant to consider you based on my recommendation, but there’s only so much I can do. Especially when--” He stopped himself.

James stared. “When what?” he asked, a weary edge to his voice.

Thomas took a breath, lips parting then shutting then opening again to say, “There’ve been mentions of your temperament.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Students… a few have expressed their concerns about you ending classes early, seeming distracted, unapproachable, even downright surly.”

James nodded into a slight chuckle, “Are you referring to Mr. Dufresne?”

“Among others.”

“He was disruptive and he was asked to leave. What else should I have done?”

“Well, arguing with him was not a good start.”

“Arguing?” James scoffed. “I was simply _engaging_ him. He actually had a good theory. It’s surely not my fault that he couldn’t handle the thought of having holes punched through his hypothesis. For Christ’s sake, I thought this was Personality Psychology not Dramatic-fucking-Arts.”

Thomas returned the beginnings of a smile, but he must’ve deemed it inappropriate judging by how quickly it faded.

James shook his head. “Look, I appreciate you coming down here, but shouldn’t DeGroot be the one telling me this? My department head?”

“He should,” Thomas sighed, “but I know that neither of you particularly care for one another, so I took it upon myself.”

The desire to stuff the next question down almost equalled James’ need to ask it. Almost. “What do you think I should do?” he submitted.

“I think…” Thomas paused, piecing his words together thoughtfully, as he often did whenever what came next was something the person on the receiving end would likely not agree with. James instantly knew he wouldn’t like the end of this sentence. “I think that you should talk to someone.”

“I don’t need to talk to anyone,” James dismissed, walking around his desk.

“I know that’s not what you want to hear, but--”

“Was there anything else?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Thomas didn’t answer, not immediately, not until James nodded and made a step for the door. “What did I just walk in on?” he finally said.

James stopped, stiffened. “Was there anything else _regarding the subject at hand_?” he clarified.

“This _is_ regarding the subject at hand.” Thomas moved in front of James, blocking his path toward the door, looking directly into his eyes. “Are you involved with one of your students?”

James looked away. “It’s not what it - No. I’m not.”

He could have told Thomas that John wasn’t one of his students. He could have told Thomas that it was none of his business. He could have even reminded him that there was no law against it, had fraternization even been the case. But instead, James went into protection mode. He felt himself shift almost instantly, just like the flip of a switch, and he immediately moved to shield Thomas from the painful claws of the truth.

Incredulous, Thomas said, “Really? Because that’s certainly not what it looked like.”

A million words crawled through his mind, explanations, excuses, evolutions of lies, but James couldn’t bring himself to settle on any of them. About all he could do was peer into the skies of distress across from him and muster up the words, “I’m sorry.”

Thomas swallowed his next accusation, the words obviously not what he’d expected. “Is that why you left?” softly broke between them. “Was it because of him?”

Jesus. He’d just abandoned him - no formalities, no closure - and Thomas was trying to pick up the pieces of a puzzle that he’d never be able to solve. What had James done to deserve such a beautiful human being? How was it that he, clumsy as he was in such matters, had been given authority over another man’s heart?

This was simply a matter of which monster James got to be to now: the one that would leave Thomas for someone else, or the one that was responsible for destroying his life.

James was both. And he was neither.

So, “It has absolutely nothing to do with him,” echoed back, and it was the truth, what Thomas deserved.

“Then what?” Thomas said, desperate, frustrated. “What did I do? What… _didn’t_ I do?”

James longed to tell him the truth, but how could he? How could he admit to him what he'd done? No. He'd rather let his guilt eat him alive than rehash it all under the guise of closure. He'd already nursed Thomas through the loss of Miranda. He’d already brought him back from the brink of darkness. He’d served his purpose in Thomas’ life. Why tell him the truth now and reopen the wounds?

“I know that I wasn’t always there, but I can be - now. I can be there.” He grabbed James’ hand, turning the numbness from before into a powerful, comforting warmth. “If you’d only _let_ me.”

But it was James who couldn’t be there, not anymore. It was more than him having nothing left to give now. It was more than Thomas deserving better. There were things eating James up inside that had nothing to do with this guilt or this love, challenges he’d only begun to face, struggles requiring only time and space.

Another apology was all he could muster now. A gentle caress of Thomas’ cheek and a chaste forehead kiss before leaving him be. Because sometimes people just grew apart. But other times - people simply needed to part in order for them to grow.

_I’m sorry. That’s all I’ve got._

 

**oo**

 

James rolled the Lonsdale between his thumb and first two fingers, searching for any lumps or soft spots before sweeping it under his nose and taking in the subtle vanilla infusion. Once it’d been deemed suitable, he snipped off the end with his cigar clipper and held the other end above the flame of his torch lighter. He rotated it slowly, carefully, until the tobacco was primed and an unmistakable orange glow crept over the brown leaves housing it.

It’d been almost two weeks since James had moved into his own apartment and he’d swear that he’s spent most of that time on his terrace - a book in his lap and a Glenfiddich Single Malt within arm’s reach. Without Thomas around he’d started drafting again, and cooking, and he’d even bought a new ship in a bottle to craft during some of that fresh and unfamiliar downtime.

For the first time in a very long time he felt something that seemed scarily close to resembling progress.

The prospect of losing his job had moved him to explore other areas in his field of expertise, exciting in its own way, to be sure, but terrifyingly tedious all the same. Perhaps it was simply the novelty of it all, the distraction, the illusion of forward movement which kept him halfway sane. Whatever the case, it was a far cry from the stagnation he’d been caving under for the better part of a year. Not having to look Thomas in the eyes, not having that constant reminder of his failures, it did take some of the futility out of rolling that particular boulder up that hill just to watch it roll back down again.

Thick white smoke billowed around him, the taste of vanilla and barley a fine accompaniment to Schopenhauer and Philip Glass. And maybe this was all there was to life: just solitude, creature comforts, and the lies that people told themselves to make it through another day.

James placed a bookmark between the pages of the softcover then traded it for his scotch, a random memory of John’s voice cutting through the ennui and rustling up the smallest of laughs.

_You are a proper snob, James Flint._

He stared at his cigar. They'd never spoken again of that day in his class. He and John had gone on as if nothing had happened, a dinner here, a movie there, each time pushing James to explain but prompting John to show him just how unnecessary it was. James wondered how a man could be _that_ free, so accepting of another’s personhood as to not view him as merely an extension of himself. John never onced asked about Thomas. Not once. All he ever seemed to care about was who James became whenever he was with him.

A content sigh, a few more gulps, then a rattling of whisky stones. James wished he could enjoy this all a bit longer but he had somewhere to be. He set his spent glass upon the table and made to get ready for the afternoon, leaving swirls of smoke to settle into the now vacated terrace, and a cigar to die a dignified death atop its crystal ashtray.  

 

**oo**

 

The door was open just as promised. James pushed slowly, allowing rap music to seep through the crack before he made his way in. He shut the door behind him and looked around the apartment, inhaling the increasingly familiar scent of coffee beans and leather upholstery.

“Fuck! Just shoot the bloody thing!” boomed from beyond the hallway.

James followed the cacophony. He found John in his bedroom, headset in place and controller in hand, focused intensely on a video game which incorporated lots of shooting and some rather gorily deformed humans.

“Hey!” John acknowledged from the edge of his bed, but he only took his eyes off of the television for a second. “Just give me minute. I can’t pause this game.”

He winced at the TV and crinkled his nose, his fingers flicking feverishly over the buttons. James watched from the doorway as John’s eyes narrowed, as he bit his lip in total concentration, as he stopped every so often to mouth a rap lyric or shout something at whoever was on the other end of his headset. He was so different from anyone James had ever known - so alive, so unique, so refreshingly John.

He’d heard somewhere that a frown required far more muscles than a smile, but that certainly felt like a lie as James tried to hold back this particular one. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leaned into the doorframe.

“Fuck me, that was impossible!” John broke out, pulling his headphones down to settle around his neck. James tried not to seem too interested in just how relaxed-fit and low-rise John’s faded blue jeans were, or the way his t shirt hugged his muscles as he got up to lower the music. No grey this time. Damn. James was a little disappointed. “Are you early or did I just lose track of time?

James glanced at his watch. "Half past two, right?”

John nodded, tossing his controller onto the bed. “I’ve yet to get used to your punctuality, but I promise you, I _am_ trying.” He walked toward James, not giving him very much time to weigh the implications of John's sentence before he was but a mere footstep from him.

“Hi,” John said, a slight tilt of his head softening the formal greeting.

“Hi,” James repeated, not quite sure why he felt his face, yet again, trying to break itself into a smile.

“May I hug you?”

The question sounded ridiculous to James but he knew why John needed it to be asked. He nodded his permission and John promptly wrapped both arms around his neck. James rested his hand against John’s hip, allowing his thumb to slip underneath the hem of John’s striped t shirt and brush the sliver of skin granted to him. John took in a breath, held it, then released it along with James. Short, sweet, respectful, and far less than what James could admit he had actually desired. He’d barely gotten wind of John’s lemon & peppermint shampoo before the man was pulling away.

John reached for the stem of the mic attached to his headphones. “Oi, let’s start over. We’ve got a fourth now.”

He turned and fetched another controller, then held it out to James. “Shit, I don’t - no,” James chuckled. “No, I… I wouldn’t be any good.”

“Right, neither is Jack but Anne and I let him play with us all the time,” John joked. “And you’d certainly be better than the A.I.”

“Your mic is still on, y’know,” a voice sounded through the headphones. “And I’ll have you know--”

John grinned and pushed a button and the voice cut out abruptly. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

James suddenly felt too old; too serious. He stared at the controller then back at John, a youthful glimmer greeting him from behind an outstretched arm. Fun? Christ. He’d almost forgotten the meaning of the word.

The control felt heavier than it appeared, but James also had never held one before so he really had nothing to compare it to. It sat oddly in his grip as he made his way to John’s bed.

_X, Y, A, B, start, back, oh hell, there are even buttons on the top._

John raised the music to a respectable level, barely audible but just loud enough so that he could make out the words, though James was certain that he himself wouldn’t even understand them if the volume were higher.

He was feeling older and older by the second.

“Alright,” said John, grabbing his controller and settling onto the bed beside James. “Have you ever played _Left 4 Dead_ before?”

James removed his coat and shook his head.

“Well, basically, you’re in the middle of this zombie apocalypse, yeah? And you have to navigate yourself to the extraction point. Along the way, you encounter some unsavory creatures who are quite content with beating you to a bloody pulp. Your objective is… well - not to die.”

James snorted. “I’ll do my best.”

He should’ve probably told John that he’d never actually played a video game in his life, but he kept that tidbit to himself because, how hard could it be, really? He’d dissected the minds of psychopaths as a hobby in his youth. A little hand-eye coordination couldn’t possibly be that difficult.

James pretended not to notice when John changed the difficulty level from expert to advanced, though.

The beginning of the campaign was rather straightforward, though two screens on one television was far more confusing than James had anticipated. Once he got over the disorientation, he learned which button caused the character to jump, which one was for reloading, which one shot the guns and the one for melees rather quickly. So quickly, in fact, that Anne only made a joke about him once.

_“Fuck. I bet you a pint of Gat that John’s friend over there ain’t never even played a video game before and he’s still better than you, Jack.”_

_“Right. I’ll surely remember that the next time you’re covered in Boomer bile, darling.”_

As luck would have it, the next nauseated and swollen fellow didn’t vomit on Anne, but targeted James in a nearby alley.

“Oh, fuck! What the hell just - what do I do?”

John laughed as James’ screen turned green and gunky and zombies descended upon him. “Use the ax! Use the ax!”

“Shit! There’s so many of them!” James shouted.

“Fuck! Somebody throw a pipe bomb. Anne! I can’t get--!

“ _Oh, bloody hell! Taaaaank!_ ”

Reaching over and molding his fingers over James’, John pressed down on the buttons necessary to switch to the melee weapon and hack at the rotting figures surrounding James’ character. James was momentarily distracted by the sensation of John’s skin as it melted into his, but the sound of John’s character screaming for help and the ravenous screeches of angry undead pulled him right back into the experience. His first person view found him cringing as dirty grey hands battled furiously for their pounds of flesh and bodies split open under the edge of his ax.

John went back to his own controller as Jack’s character helped him to his feet and Anne took shots at an overgrown creature who hurled cars and chunks of concrete toward the group.

“Holy Christ, what the fuck is that thing?!” James laughed.

John switched to his assault rifle and started to blast at it. “Run,” he cautioned. “Don’t let it get close.”

James followed his instructions, jumping and dodging the enormous mutant and its projectiles while trying his best to keep it within the crosshairs of his gun. Eventually, it collapsed.

“ _You alright over there, John_ ?” asked Jack. “ _You aren’t on your last knockdown already, are you?”_

John didn’t give Jack the satisfaction of taking his teasing words to heart. His portion of the dual-screen was grey, however, and his character was limping, the sound of a heartbeat ringing through his headphones. “You mind patching me up,” he asked, nudging James’ knee with his own.

“I…” James looked down at the buttons on his controller as if they were labelled with just how to carry out such a foreign request. “How do I do that?”

John's face softened with the slightest of grins. “Press right on the directional pad. Now walk over to me and hold down the left trigger.”

Gradually, and with much folly, the entire group made it into the safe room at the end of the level. Statistics flashed across the screen but James paid them little if any attention. He studied the backs of his hands instead, fully expecting by now to see a swell of redness from where John had touched them, but finding nothing more than fair, freckly skin.

“Damn, look at that.” John pointed. “You killed the most special infected.”

James caught a glimpse of the screen, then John. “Is that… good?”

John smirked, nodded, and James felt his cheeks grow hot from the way John was staring at him, like a puppy which he couldn’t wait to pet. “You’re fucking adorable,” he said under his breath.

A smirk of his own crept across James’ face before he blinked down at his controller. “It’s adorable to be bad at video games?”

“No. That only adds to your charm,” John said. “And you’re actually quite a fast learner. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

“Well I had a good teacher,” James replied, idly flicking the left thumbstick then glancing at John once more.

“ _My God. It’s like a fucking romantic comedy over there,_ ” Jack chimed in.

John laughed softly and pulled his headset from around his neck. “Are you hungry?” he asked James. “We don’t have to leave for another 20 minutes or so.”

“No, I’m fine,” said James, setting the controller beside him on the bed.

John rose to his feet and lowered the music, taking a moment to stretch his arms over his head in the warm light of a nearby window. He let out a faint groan and grabbed his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. He should _really_ invest in some better pillows.

Were James a braver man, he’d have asked John if he needed a massage, but he knew that it was only an excuse to touch him and that John would undoubtedly see right through it. He also knew, presumptuous as it may’ve seemed, that he didn’t really need an excuse to touch John. Some things were still blurry between them but _that_ surely wasn’t one of them.

“What was that you were listening to?”

“That, is what they call _Grime_ ,” John explained, turning to glance at James then shutting off his television. “It’s kind of a guttural mashup between hip hop, punk, dancehall, drum & bass… and you have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about do you?”

“You lost me at dancehall,” James admitted through a smirk.

John returned one of his own. “Well, I didn’t know shit about it either. My ex,” he said, raising the volume to an audible level again, “she was the one who got me into it.”

“It’s… interesting,” said James. “It’s English, but, what exactly is that accent?”

“West Indian, mostly. Jamaican patois and other Caribbean dialects. Have you ever been?”

James shook his head.

“Oh, it’s beautiful,” John insisted. “Madi was from the Bahamas - my ex - and we’d visit like twice a year. The natives all speak in similar accents though they slightly differ depending on the island… kinda like American accents differ by state.”

A nod without words was all James could manage, the thought of John in a relationship, and with a woman no less, far exceeding James’ curiosity about where the man had traveled. He already knew that John was adventurous, cultured, but what he didn’t know was anything about this - Madi. John didn’t believe in monogamy, right? Was Madi the reason why?

John turned off the stereo. “Are you ready to head out?”

  


He had no idea where they were going, only that John had wanted to show him something. James had agreed without asking any questions at all, but as they drove through an old, rundown part of town, he began to wonder if maybe he should have. Perhaps if he’d taken John’s advice, actually said what was on his mind more often, he wouldn’t be so anxious all the time.

“You can park up here.”

James did, but he wasn’t very thrilled about it. He looked around at the decrepit buildings lining the street and felt instantly out of place.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe,” John said.

“I’m not worried,” James dismissed. “Just… confused. Why are we here again?”

“I’m getting to that.”

John stepped out of the car and James followed, meeting him on the sidewalk and looking everywhere but directly at him. There were bricks which had come loose from almost every building, cracks in the concrete where tufts of grass and flowers had begun to make their homes, broken railings on stairs, boarded up windows, graffiti and piles of rubble strewn across a vacant lot. Faint music similar to what John had been listening to back in his apartment found its way through the mildewed scent in the air.

James wondered how anyone could live this way - in a place which seemed wholly forgotten. Christ, maybe he _was_ a snob afterall.

“Sweet Mary, that’s a fret! Is that - John? John fucking Silver?”

A man with a tattoo on the side of his head approached them wearing a toothy grin.

“God damn. Muldoon?!” John called back. “How the hell are ya, mate?”

Muldoon roared and ran a shoulder into John, taking him into a hug and patting his back rather forcefully. “Fuck! It's been ages! We thought you were dead!”

“Almost,” John chuckled.

“Shit. Wow.” Muldoon shook his head. “Wait until Logan hears about this. He's not gonna believe it, he ain’t.”

John smiled. “How is Logan?”

“Aw, he’s good, he’s good. He kicked a few years ago. Him and Charlotte.”

“That’s good news.”

“Yeah… yeah,” Muldoon nodded. “Though we can’t all be success stories, ay?” He smacked John’s arm, hard but playful, then glanced over at James. “One day at a time, ay lads?”

It was clear Muldoon was struggling with an addiction of his own. John nodded with him, compassion tugging at his mouth and brows. “This is my friend, James.”

Muldoon made a gesture in acknowledgment but seemed entirely uncomfortable with the introduction.

“He’s not a cop,” John joked.

Muldoon laughed, short and labored. “Hey, how’s Madi?”

John took a moment before responding. “We’re not together anymore.”

James tried not to make too much of John’s tone.

“Aw, shit. That’s a shame. She was a good girl.”

“She was,” John agreed.

James shifted, trying not to appear as off balance as he was beginning to feel. John wasn’t exactly an intentional mystery. Sure, he wouldn’t just cough up his life story but he’d always answered the difficult questions. He’d volunteered far more of himself than James had, and it was precisely for that reason that James couldn’t bring himself to ask about Madi, even if the questions had been nagging him from the very first mention of her. James figured that he’d need to reciprocate in order to learn the details of something so personal, and Miranda was not something he was willing to negotiate.

“Well, it’s better to have loved and lost and all that,” said Muldoon.

“That’s what I hear,” John humored.

“Aye. Some things never change though.” Muldoon motioned behind him with a tilt of his head, and James followed John’s eyes toward a graffiti-laden lot. “You headed for _The Hills_?”

John nodded and Muldoon glanced back toward the place James assumed they were referencing with the moniker (ironic as it was). “You’d better be off then. It’s almost sunset.”

John cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said, resting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Muldoon.”

“I always do,” the man returned, giving John’s shoulder a pat of his own.

John turned to James. “Shall we?”

So many questions. So many. But only walking. Walking. Silence and walking. John ducked through a hole in the fence and James followed, over the hills of debris and into a building that could hardly even be considered a building if the lack of proper walls were any factor at all. James didn’t know why his heart was beating so quickly, why his hands were shaking and his jaw was tight. It wasn’t exactly fear. He wasn’t worried about getting hurt, per se. It was more of a deep, underlying uneasiness with all of the unknowns. But he wanted to trust John, of that much he knew, so into the maelstrom he went.

John turned a corner and ascended some gravelly steps, looking around at every nook and cranny as if he were taking it all in for the very first time. His familiarity with the terrain, however, spoke to an entirely different story. John knew exactly where he was going; a quiet confidence shrouded deliberate actions. So, James continued to follow him, no explanation necessary, though he did hope that John’s deep sighs would not be all he’d get to hear on the matter.

They got to a small room and John paused in the doorway, resting a hand on either side of the frame and taking another of many deep breaths. He wet his lips and surveyed the room - up, down, left, right - making one last circle with his gaze before finally deciding to enter.

“This is it,” he said. “This is where…”

James stared at him, feeling almost like too much of an outsider to enter into the room behind him.

Grafitti covered almost every surface. Piles of rubble gathered in the corners and soot flew through the air with every tumultuous step. James wondered at the structural integrity of the place as John walked over to a hole in the wall where there’d probably been a window once. He took another breath and turned to James. “This is where I almost died.”

James held John’s eyes for a long while, the dread of looking away and into the abyss multiplying by the second. In truth, James didn’t want to look at anything else, at any _one_ else. The thought of never having met John, of losing him to a place like this… he locked eyes with him as if the act of looking away meant that John would disappear forever.

John did look away though, down at a far corner of the dusty room. “I was lying right there when Jack found me,” he recalled, shutting his eyes. “I remember feeling like the walls were caving in - like a fucking earthquake was hitting this place and I was being buried alive. But mostly… I remember the calm feeling that came over me. It was like - the thought that I’d simply sink back into the earth and never have to feel pain again.”

He opened his eyes; fixed them on that corner of the room. And James wanted to meet him there, he swore it, but he just could not bring himself to look.

“I come here once a year,” John continued, filling the tense silence, “on the anniversary of that day. And I think - I think I always hope that it'll somehow be less painful each time. That by some miracle I'll have beaten it.”

He took a breath, his forehead creasing with thought.

“I imagine…” he started, paused, and for the first time since James had known him seemed to think twice about what he was going to say.

So, James took a page from John's playbook.

“Say it.”

John's eyes snapped over to his. “I imagine that you might know what that feels like, too,” he finished.

James read the vulnerability behind John's stare like it was his favorite poem. He knew the prose well, though he’d never admit it. He’d never gone back to the place where he’d lost Miranda. He was far too afraid that he’d hurl himself off of the very same cliff which had claimed Alfred’s life. So to see John standing tall in this place, to see him choosing to confront his demons knowing full well the power they continued to wield, then choosing to share that with another person - it was beautiful, it was powerful, it was overwhelmingly inspiring in a way that James had little capacity to navigate. There was nowhere to run, nothing to drink, no one to strike out at.

James felt a lump rise in his throat. He blinked. He swallowed. He made a decision. A choice to begin - to try - to end the needless war between body and mind. He felt his feet lift under him, his hands went numb, his lungs condensed, his chest grew tight but he moved forward, for once, and for all.

He took both sides of John’s face into his hands and pressed his lips against his, overwrought and overthrown. And he held on as if letting go meant losing John to the current earthquake claiming this place. But he wouldn’t. He knew that he wouldn’t. He knew because John had both arms wrapped around James in less than an instant, reeling him in, capturing him, calm and soft and stormless.

Ripples raged throughout James’ body, shaking him to his very core. His legs were jelly; his heart was thunder. He trembled against John, pressing, sucking, grabbing fistfuls of hair and mouthfuls of breath, all but losing himself in the invitation to both. His knuckles scraped along the wall behind them but he didn’t even remember backing John into it.

He felt John’s smile spread out beneath him. “It’s alright,” he whispered against James’ lips. “It’s alright. Just breathe.”

James took a deep, quivering breath, ribs shaking violently in John’s arms. John raised a hand to his face, dispelling James’ frenzied energy with a delicate kind of patience. He ran his thumb along James’ cheek, traced his fingertips behind James’ ear, kissed him gently, slowing the pace, easing his tongue just beyond James’ lips.

He tasted of mocha and toasted tobacco. James sucked on the tip of John’s tongue, pushing his hand further into the tangles of John's mane. “Fuck,” he exhaled, burying his face into a curtain of curls.

John took him in, grounded him. The sheer strength of his hug almost smoothing away the rest of James’ tremors and tics. John pressed a kiss into James’ jaw and brought a hand up to cradle his head.

Consumed, James nuzzled into the crook of John’s neck, and he couldn’t tell if he enjoyed the velvety tumble of waves over his face more than the prickly brush of stubble against his nose. John swallowed and James brought his free hand up to try and catch the sensation against his fingers.

He felt John huff out a quiet laugh then tilt his head back, allowing James to get a better feel for his neck as he purposely swallowed again.

“Don’t laugh at me,” James muttered into John’s skin, but he was already laughing at himself.

“I promise I’m not, love,” John said, turning his face toward James’ ear. “I'm just… happy.”

James let out a long breath. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“You're sorry that I'm happy?”

“No.” James pulled himself from his blanket of coils and looked John in the eye. “I'm sorry that I didn't do that sooner,” he confessed. “This isn't really the time or place.”

John smiled, slight, honest. “Well, life doesn't exactly run on a schedule,” he said.

He was right. It didn't. In fact, life did whatever the hell it wanted to do with little regard for how James felt about it. He'd been fighting for control for so long that he'd almost forgotten about that particular part.

John ran his hand down the arm of James’ jacket, squeezing softly once he reached James’ wrist. “May I ask a favor of you?”

James nodded, letting his hand fall from John’s hair to the back of his neck.

“Can you give me a moment alone?” John asked, a hesitant twinge to his voice.

Something odd came over James right then, out of place in its familiarity. In all actuality, he’d wanted to say _no_ , to tell John that he didn’t have to face this alone. He recognized the natural instinct to protect, to control the situation straightaway, but he was keenly aware that he had absolutely no idea how to do so. John wasn’t Thomas. He wasn’t Miranda. James was simply out of his depth.

“Of course,” James gave in. He pulled away from John. “I’ll be right outside the door.”

He walked away to the sound of John letting out a telling sigh.

  


The sun was just beginning to set, casting peculiar shadows upon the walls of the desolate hallway when John reemerged some minutes later. He grabbed James’ hand without a word, led him through dim corridors, up another flight of dilapidated steps and finally out of a rusted steel door.

Something was different about him, though - more intense, more determined. He pulled James around the concrete slab and walked over to the edge of the roof, one hand in his jacket pocket, face upturned toward the dying light. He stood there for a moment, silent, allowing his eyelids to fall shut and his breath to spread out amongst the chorus of birds congregating on nearby powerlines.

“This is the best view in the entire city,” John finally said. “And it’s right here, in this forgotten little slice of chaos… in the midst of all of this suffering.”

James had been too busy admiring him to notice, but when John opened his eyes again, James followed them out into the pink and purple ribbons stretching across the darkening sky. There was no clutter of the city here. No tall buildings blocking their view. No billboards or car horns or voices clamoring for their attention. The earth had begun to reclaim this place. Its temporary essence so clear to James now. Where he had only seen lack, John had been trying to show him beauty and redemption.

“Will you do something with me?” John asked.

Guarded but still curious, James replied, “If you’re going to ask me to jump…”

John smiled and tightened his grip on James’ hand. “Not quite, but it just might feel that way.”

James turned his attention back toward the sunset and nodded minutely. “Alright.”

It wasn’t the first time that John had gotten a drum solo out of James’ tepid heart. And it certainly wouldn’t be the last. James figured he might as well get used to the feeling. If he was going to truly give this a chance, whatever this was, whatever it may have turned out to be, he'd have to start sometime. What better time than now?

“On the count of three,” said John, “let's both say what we're most afraid of.”

He looked at James to see if he agreed, but he must’ve seen something in his eyes which spoke otherwise.

“Okay. I’ll start,” John decided. “I’m afraid of--”

“You’re fucking mental,” James said, shaking his head through a small grin.

John pressed his lips together. “Why? Because I don’t want to give my fears any more power over me?”

“No. Because you think that confronting these things head on is the only way,” James argued. “There are methods to dealing with traumas, John. Ways of sifting through those delicate layers in order to progress naturally - to heal…”

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?”

James looked away, biting the inside of his bottom lip and letting a tiny breath escape through his nose to mark his indignance. “Well, I’m holding your hand aren’t I?” he said with a quick tilt of his head.

He felt John’s fingers slip deeper between his own. After a moment, he heard, “I’m sorry.”

But all James did was blink at his own shoes.

“Hey,” John whispered. “I didn’t mean--”

A flinch, just as John tried to lift James’ chin. John’s fingers retreated into a fist. He stared at James for several seconds, wordless. James stilled, blinked, collected himself, then finally turned his head and gave John the attention he’d just been seeking.

“I’m sorry,” John said again, more firmly this time around.

“It’s alright. I understand why you’d be defensive.”

“I’m not fucking - defensive,” John said, seeming to want to keep a cool head and changing his tone mid-sentence. “Y’know, I really hate that fucking word.”

“I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what else to call it.”

John let go of James’ hand and took a step toward the edge of the roof. “Just - don’t psychoanalyze me, alright,” he said, more to the sky in front of them than actually to James himself. And when he finally did turn back toward him, “Just talk to me like a person.”

James stood there, motionless, staring into John’s eyes and trying his best to figure out how to proceed. They were closer now, obviously. The facades were coming down and it so clearly terrified them both, but they’d have to learn how to navigate each other. They’d have to have disagreements. James reminded himself that this was healthy, but he didn’t share that with John.

With a sigh, John turned away again, bending his good leg and taking a seat before letting both legs hang over the ledge. James assumed John was frustrated with his silence, so he waited a moment before he sat down beside him. He pulled one knee into the crook of his arm and let his other leg hang over the ledge as well.

James looked John over, took note of the way that he gazed at the last bits of sunset but lost interest quickly, starting to scratch at the chipped paint of the ledge instead.

“I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to love again,” James confessed to his own fidgeting hand. From the corner of his eye he could see that John had turned his head to look at him, but James chose not to do the same. “That after Thomas and--” He paused. “That maybe I never really knew how to love to begin with. That everything that I love...”

His jaw clenched tight. And that was the end of it. That was far enough for now.

James searched the sky for any remaining slivers of pink or orange, but only a faint purple had chosen to remain. Finally, he peered over at John.

“I’m afraid of being alone,” John spoke, and the direct eye contact almost startled James. “I’m afraid that for as much as people like me, as much as people love to fuck me, to invite me to parties, to listen to me play my guitar... that no one will ever truly love me. That they’ll only ever love the idea of me.”

The silence hung between them for longer than their gazes managed to stay aligned. John was the one to look away first. “So, I settle,” he continued. “I settle for these cold, and lifeless, and vapid connections with people who I know don’t really give two fucks about me. And I tell myself that it’s alright because nobody owes me a fucking thing. And just because I can love with all my heart doesn’t necessarily mean that I deserve that in return.”

He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. “I pretend it doesn’t bother me - but it does,” he nodded, beginning to rub that invisible smudge on the inside of his hand again. “It hurts. Every single fucking time, it hurts. But what am I supposed to do? Honestly. Stop loving life and people? I’ve been down that road before… I know where it ends. And I don’t _ever_ want to go back.”

Whatever it was that James felt in the pit of his chest raced toward his stomach in a ball of electrified heat. He wanted so badly to comfort him. He wanted so overwhelmingly much to tell John that he deserved to be loved, that he didn’t have to be alone, but how silly would those words have sounded falling from such cynical lips? No. He wouldn’t pacify John with lies like he’d done for so many others. John wasn’t one of those flimsy souls who sat on the other side of James’ desk. James wouldn’t insult him that way.

John ran both hands through his hair and tucked the sides behind his ears. “God, I talk too fucking much,” he chuckled.

“No,” James said quickly. “No. You talk precisely enough.”

“Yeah?” John asked, smoothing his mustache. “Then why do I always feel like a fucking idiot when I’m done.”

“Because you speak from your heart. And I imagine that not very many people have taken too kindly to your reality.”

John’s eyes flicked to his but they offered little in the way of a proper response. A few moments later, though, “What the fuck are we doing?” he said under his breath.

James laughed under his own. “I wish I knew.”

He slid one thumbnail under the rim of the other one, a pointless act but comforting nonetheless. In all honesty, he really hadn't wanted to know the answer to the question. Wasn't it still a bit premature to be pondering such things?

“Look, I don’t pretend to know just what the fuck this is between us,” said John, “but in the interest of full disclosure - I feel the need to let you know that I really don't see it ending in any way that isn’t a complete fucking disaster.”

James raised his eyebrows but lowered his chin. “I’m inclined to agree,” he said. “The question now being, what do you want to do about it?”

“I thought I’d made that clear,” said John, voice smooth as ever, in that special way that only he could manage. “What do _you_ want to do about it?”

James set one hand on the surface between them, leaning over toward John, grabbing the back of his head and pulling him into another kiss.

  


Lit up only by tarnished streetlamps, the lot took on an ill-boding presence. John led James back over piles of trash and broken rock toward the gate whence they had entered.

He stopped abruptly. “Fuck.”

Blue lights flickered across concrete walls, but the source could not yet be seen.

“Pigs,” John concluded.

James watched as the cruiser approached, parking itself right in front of the gate. He’d dealt with his fair share of police before. In general, they didn’t bother him, but he could recall the mild annoyances - the fact that many of them did not know or even care for the laws in which they’d taken oaths to protect being chief among them.

“They’re probably conducting stop and searches,” James added. “Just tell them that you do not consent to a search. I’ll pay the fine for trespassing if need be.”

He started forward, unfazed, but John was not so quick to follow.

James turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

John reached into his pocket, circled in place, surveying the ground around him as if he’d dropped something. “Shit.”

“Hey,” called out one of the two officers. “What’re you two doing out here?”

Frustrated, John forced out a few more swear words, but it only took James a few more seconds to connect all of the dots. He walked up and took John into a hug, purposely blocking the officer’s line of view. John tensed and grabbed James’ arm, tried to stop him, but James was pulling out the contents of John’s pocket and stuffing it down the front of his own jeans before John could manage otherwise.

John hadn’t been looking for something he’d dropped. He’d been looking for somewhere to toss his stash.

“That’s quite enough of that,” the second cop started, her voice shrill but not lacking the authority for it.

James pulled away in time to catch John’s look of dumbfoundment in the officer’s flashlight.

“This is private property,” Officer 1 advised. “What’s your business here?”

John didn’t respond. He simply stared at Flint as if he could not believe what he’d just done.

“We were watching the sunset on the roof,” James explained matter-of-factly.

“Oh, were you, now?” said Officer 1. “Having a romantic date in _The Hills, eh_?”

Officer 2 giggled and shined her flashlight into James’ face. “Up against the wall. Both of you.”

“We do not consent to any searches, constable.”

“Be that as it may,” Officer 2 snarked. “You’re trespassing and you’re in a well-known drug area. I have reasonable suspicion to conduct one. So… Wall. Now _._ ”

James thought to protest further, but the matter wasn’t worth the effort. He had a good lawyer. It’d be a slap on the wrist. He’d be out of jail by morning.

The rueful look on John’s face, however, would haunt James for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad these fuckfaces finally kissed. That's really all I can say about this 10.5k+ monstrosity. John and James kissed. Finally. I should have honestly just written those 4 words and went on about my life. It would have been so much less suffering .-.
> 
>  
> 
> BTW: Can we all just have a moment of silent appreciation for John in grey sweatpants? 
> 
>  
> 
> P.S. This is what he is wearing when James goes to see him and starts talking about how he looks in dem [jeans](https://cdn.lookastic.com/looks/navy-bomber-jacket-white-and-black-crew-neck-t-shirt-blue-jeans-dark-brown-boots-original-7447.jpg) hehe. So adorbs.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed my antics ♡ As always, thank you for reading.
> 
> Love & Rockets,  
> Trinity


	10. When You're too in Love to Let it Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***  
> I'm not a trigger warning kind of person, but this chapter might have some potentially triggering scenes so, if you'd like to know more before you read, you're more than welcome to message me about it for some elaboration.
> 
> If not, go forth my children!  
> ANGST AWAITS YE!
> 
> ***

“ _Every man has his torments..._ ”

Coldness. Hardness. Darkness. James turned on the thin cot, grateful for a cell of his own but exceedingly uncomfortable nonetheless. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, tried his best to cover the part of his lower back that had become exposed during his latest efforts to keep warm, then tucked his knees back into his chest. Ink still stained his fingerprints.

“ _...demons born of past wrongs that hound and harass him.._.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he moaned.

Tossing his legs over the side and sitting upright, James searched the dim room for the source of the voice. He lowered his head into his hand, rubbing chilly fingers into his forehead when no such relief could be found.

“What do you want from me?” he spoke into the ether.

Shadows cast by the emerging dawn and the room’s sole window were his only answers.

It’d been months since he’d actually seen the apparition of Miranda, but her voice still managed to linger in the corners of everyday existence. Usually, it was subtle, easy to ignore, but as he lay there in that desolate room with the sobering consequences of last night’s decisions, her voice had finally rung loud enough to stir him.

“ _Every man has his torments - demons born of past wrongs that hound and harass him...”_

James stood up and paced about the room. He hadn’t really been thinking when he’d reached into John’s pocket. He didn’t know what he’d find there, but he did it, and now all of his normal distractions were gone. He had only his mind to sit with, his thoughts to contend with, a dangerous course to traverse without the buffers which he’d grown so proficient in setting meticulously into place. No alcohol. No books. No music. No cigars. No John…

No John.

Was that all he was? A distraction?

“ _Every man has his torments...”_

He placed a hand against the frigid cement wall, let his chin bow into his collarbones. There was something about the stark solidity of it that kept him from getting trapped in these obsessive delusions, kept his thoughts from racing and Miranda’s voice just low enough to keep from startling him in the silence. It didn’t always fix, but it helped. It helped.

The lights above him flickered on and James squinted at them incredulously. He made to sit with his back against the wall when the door swung out and a tall, slender man darkened its opening. “You’re being released.”

Straightening up, James asked, “I’m not being charged?”

The constable simply stared at him, seemingly bored by questions or maybe just plain old words in general.

James stared back for a moment then followed the cop out and down the long corridor. They rounded a corner and made their way through another set of doors, and once through, the other man pointed to a chair at the front of a desk for James to sit in while he took a seat behind it. He slid a clipboard across its surface.

“I’ll need you to sign these,” he said, apathetic.

A citation? 12 hours in a cell and all James was being given was a citation? He glanced up at the clerk, but the man was too busy retrieving James’ belongings to notice.

 _Possession of a Class A Substance -_ £ 2,000

 _Possession of a Class B Substance_ \- £ 500

The scratch of James’ pen across the paper was enough to get the constable to look back at him. He collected the clipboard and pushed James’ things toward him.

“You’ll want to check those, then sign here.”

It was quite surreal the entire thing, almost even dreamlike. James looped his belt back around his waist, slipped his arms back into his coat, checked his wallet for any missing items, stuffed his cell phone into his pocket, then looked once more at the cop before signing the final sheet of paper. It felt like something was missing but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Grateful for the warmth he’d been missing, James signed the final sheet of paper then powered on his phone as the constable made to escort him from the building.

His keys.

Shit.

That’s what was missing.

Outside, with the relentless morning light momentarily blinding him, James stopped upon the stairs in order to let his eyes adjust. He scrolled down his contacts list, coming to John’s name and thinking back on that moment sitting next to him on the ledge. He’d leaned a bit too far into John’s lips and heard his keys fall out of his jacket pocket. John hadn’t allowed him to pick them up, hands firm and greedy on the back of James’ head, and the whole thing had made James a bit too dizzy to remember if John had collected them for him.

His lips made an attempt at a barely-there grin. Today would be shit, that was a virtual certainty, but yesterday… yesterday wasn’t half bad.

“Would you like a ride?”

James turned toward the voice, thumb still hovering over the screen of his phone as his brows pushed together in confusion. He glanced down the street then back over at Thomas.

“Billy called me,” he explained, no doubt noticing James’ bewilderment. “And I thought, at the very least, you might need a ride to your car.”

Nose and cheeks slightly reddened by the thin morning air, Thomas had probably been waiting outside for quite some time. James scrutinized him, not sure exactly how to respond or what it was in Thomas’ eyes that was different from the last time he’d seen him. The delicate smile being leveled at James had certainly complicated things, too.

James hesitated but eventually descended the stairs. “I don’t actually know where my car is,” he admitted, voice scratchy.

He cleared his throat, fully expecting one of those looks from Thomas at the bottom of the steps, one of those tight-lipped scolds he'd grown so terribly used to over the past few months, but all he’d been met with was a compassionate gaze and a head tilt of concern. “Well, we can call to see if it’s been impounded first,” Thomas said.

A tuft of white fog ghosted from his lips as he patiently waited for James’ response. After a moment of careful consideration, James finally agreed. Thomas wasted no time pulling out his phone, removing one glove and tapping at the screen, looking up the number and dialing it. James took the opportunity to swipe at his own phone, to send a text to John in hopes that perhaps he’d moved the car for him. Both men glanced at each other periodically, but James could never hold his end of the contact.

He didn’t mean to watch Thomas as the man tucked the phone between his shoulder and ear, as he tried to put his glove back on, as he spouted off James’ license plate number from memory. He didn’t intend to notice the quaint softness of his voice, or the way Thomas bounced on his heels, trying to muster up some heat and nuzzling his nose into the top of his scarf. Thomas never did do well with the cold.

James ignored the automatic need to warm him, the subtle tensing of his arms as they pulled toward Thomas on their own accord. He clutched the insides of his pockets and looked off down the street instead.

“They don’t have it,” Thomas said.

Shit. He’d have to call John now. There’d be no getting around that.

Not that James didn’t _want_ to call John, he just didn’t want to do it in front of Thomas. He thought for a moment, how best to proceed, but his thoughts hadn’t exactly been doing him much good since he’d woken up that morning.

“What did Billy say?” James heard himself ask.

Thomas took in a breath before answering. “He said you’d been taken in for drug possession and that I might need to post your bail.”

He’d have to call Billy, too. Fuck. He’d have to find out if his inevitable job hunt would now be hampered by a drug caution on his record. Though, he wouldn’t be surprised if the lad had managed to make all of it disappear entirely. Billy was a damn good lawyer.

James found Thomas’ eyes once more, yet again expecting judgment but being met with only sympathy. “Have you eaten?” Thomas asked. “Were you able to get any sleep?”

This was different. Yes. That much was certain - the chill of words unsaid still present but taking a momentary backseat to whatever this was. James, forever the cynic however, felt like the questions were absurd. Not because they weren’t sincere but because he was positive that they weren’t the ones that Thomas had really wanted to ask. He found himself immediately beginning to get anxious, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Not very much,” he replied.

“Christ, you must be exhausted.”

Honestly. What was this? Where was the chastisement, the frustration, the anger? Where were the questions James had steeled himself for when he’d first noticed Thomas at the bottom of the steps? Why was the man being so… understanding?

Suddenly, James didn’t like this. He didn’t like it one bit. “I think I’m just going to go home,” he said. “I can figure it all out from there.”

“Alright.”

Thomas gestured to his car, but James simply shook his head. “You don’t have to take me.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s not your responsibility.”

Thomas frowned. “I’m not here because I feel obligated, James.”

“Then why are you?” James asked blankly.

Maybe it was his own denseness, his own unwillingness to acknowledge how hard Thomas was working at trying to mend the ever-growing schism between them, but he realized in that moment that he didn’t care for the reason. He simply could no longer find the strength to protect Thomas from him. He should walk away now, before the feeling got worse.

Thomas nodded and let out a soft sigh. “Because I want to be.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you… and because you deserve it.”

James scoffed.

“And I know you don’t feel that you do but - you do. James…” Thomas hooked a hand on the back of James’ neck, shaking him gently. “You do.”

James squirmed out of his grip, taking a breath, forcing his hands to unclench from the fists he’d unintentionally formed inside his pockets.

“You _don’t_ know,” James warned.

A quick check of his phone revealed no response from John.

“Maybe I don’t. Because you refuse to tell me.”

James took a step back in avoidance, aimlessly fidgeting with the icons on the screen and ruminating over the futility of it all. “I don’t have time for this,” he insisted.

There was so much to get sorted now. And it really wasn’t like John not to reply within a few minutes. Maybe he was in the shower. Maybe he was at band practice. Maybe his music was up too loud.

 _Maybe he’s ignoring you_.

“Right. Of course you don’t.”

Thomas pushed out a frustrated breath, and James felt his grip on his phone begin to tighten, slightly shaking the screen. He knew this part of it well. The cyclical thinking. The mounting tension. The racing heart. The shrinking lungs. Fuck. Please, don’t - not right now.

He briefly squeezed his eyes shut to regain his focus, swallowed to push the rise of terror and nausea back down deep into his gut. Now was certainly not the time to be anxious. He’d find his car and he’d speak with John. There was really no need to panic. Everything would be back to normal soon enough. Then he could call Billy. After he spoke with John - right. Then everything would get sorted. Everything would be fine. He just needed to talk to John first. But he couldn’t call John in front of Thomas. No. Ok - he just needed to get home first. Then he could call John. Then he could get his car. Then he could call Billy. Everything would be sorted. Everything would be…

“Hey…”

Thomas carefully wrapped his hand around James’ phone, lowering it from his face. And as if a thick haze had been lifted, James’ erratic thoughts began to still. He blinked up and focused on Thomas, on his icy blue eyes, on his pink flushed skin. He’d made him happy once. He’d taken care of him.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said softly.

His leather gloves burned through the skin of James’ hand. James shut his eyes, trying to stay with the feeling, trying to ground himself in the here and now. He took in a breath and let it out, slow, and he hoped that Thomas couldn’t discern the obvious tremor in it.

When he opened them again, they felt heavier, sunken in, as if he couldn’t lift them any higher than Thomas’ scarf. Another gloved hand rose to the side of his face, sliding down gently and coming to rest at the meeting of his shoulder and neck.

“Let me help you,” a small voice pleaded.

James finally raised his gaze to meet Thomas’, stared at him as if he were art hanging in all its splendor. It hadn't been James’ strength that had protected him. It hadn’t been selflessness, or guilt, or shame - it’d been James’ sordid version of love. He’d adored Thomas to the man’s own detriment, fancying him unable to handle the vile and profane truths which James had kept hidden away. He’d underestimated Thomas’ _own_ strength, his courage, and he’d mistaken that with love. But this, what Thomas was doing right now, this was what love truly looked like.

Disgrace wasn’t a good enough word for what James felt. Failure wasn’t either. He searched Thomas’ eyes for… something, anything other than the unconditional love reflecting back, anything that James could cling to and tell himself that he deserved. Contempt. Disgust. Anger. Anything that he actually knew how to reciprocate. But all he found was love. All he found resting in Thomas’ unwavering attention was the only thing that James had absolutely no idea how to give back.

So, “No,” was all James had said - and he’d meant it, but it was sorely different this time. It wasn’t to protect Thomas. It wasn’t to punish himself. It wasn’t to build atop his own savior complex, to falsely paint himself a martyr, to boost his own ego with lies of his self-sacrifice. He couldn’t do that anymore. He couldn’t tout himself as the lamb when he was so obviously the lion. He wouldn’t. And that would be his first and only true act of love in all of the time that he’d known Thomas. That would be any and everything left which could be offered now.

“No?” Thomas thinned his lips in frustration. “James, honestly--”

“I need you to go.”

James pulled Thomas’ hand from his neck, watched as his mouth fell open and their hands fell apart.

“I don’t--”

“I know,” James said, voice smoky and true. “I know you don’t want to. I know you want to help me, but you can’t. And I can’t keep walking away from you because you’re only going to keep coming after me. So I need you to do it. I need you to go.”

Thomas blinked at him, a blank expression falling over a beautiful face.

“I know that you love me,” James pressed on, “and I know that you feel like you owe me for everything that I’ve done to help you get through it - but you don’t, Thomas. You don’t owe me a goddamn thing. You’ve given me far more than I’ve ever given you.” James tucked his phone back into his pocket, raised his hands to Thomas’ arms, running them up and down briskly, finally warming him in the way that his instincts had been pushing him to the entire time. “But this… this, pretending that picking me up from a fucking police station doesn’t bother you, not asking any questions, not telling me how you truly feel, this isn’t _you_ , Thomas. This isn’t how _you_ love.”

Somewhere deep, buried, hidden underneath mountains of emotional rubble, James had kept these kinds of words locked away from himself and from Thomas. Was this how you loved a person? Did you give them the ugly truth even if it ultimately left them in shambles? James didn’t have the answer to that question, but he knew one thing to be true: Doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result was the very definition of insanity.

Eyelids fluttering, Thomas looked away. He let out a breath which seemed as if it’d been held the entire time James was speaking. A tear crept over his bottom lashes but he wiped it away before it slid to his cheek.

“You’re right,” he murmured into the wind, swallowing back the shake in his voice. “I want to ask. I want to know just what on earth is going on with you. Drugs, James?” He shot a confused look James’ way. “God, you positively _loathe_ drugs. You’ve said so yourself. ‘They are the trappings of weaker men.’ That’s what you said… and...”

James nodded, squeezing Thomas’ arms as the man shrugged in bewilderment. “I still believe that,” he admitted. “But I’m beginning to learn that weak moments do not define a man.”

“But Oxycontin, James? I can understand the Marijuana on account of your anxiety, but--” Thomas shook his head. “Not this. What is happening to you?”

“I know how this is going to sound before I even say it but, believe it or not, they aren’t mine.”

Thomas stared at him, eyes squinting through what James could only assume was a path from disbelief to acceptance. “I don’t even know what to s-, say. What to ask.”

James pulled his hands from Thomas’ arms and pushed them into his pockets. “Ask me whatever you want,” he said.

And the words fell easily from his tongue, stinging only after his mind had caught up. He felt his body continue to swell with all the telltale signs. His hands grew clammy in his pockets, his heart began to pump harder in order to supply more anxious energy. But he wouldn’t take the words back now. He would not begrudge Thomas this any longer. This was what Thomas deserved. It was what was necessary for him to move on. It was the only way James would love him now. And if it destroyed him, so be it.

“Is this about Miranda?” Thomas asked.

That - had not been what James was expecting. A vague question about what had been tormenting him, yes. A vague question which would have allowed James a vague answer, maybe. But certainly not a question as direct as this. And judging by Thomas’ expression, James could tell his own eyes had already answered this particular question for him.

Thomas reached into James’ pocket and wrapped his hand around the fist waiting there. “James, I… I know what happened,” he said.

James’ jaw clenched so hard that his head began to tremble. He knew? He knew and yet he was still here? Still holding James’ hand? Still trying to comfort him? What manner of a man was he?

The world fell away around them, and Thomas’ voice was as clear as the daylight. “When she’d told me that she desired you, I was a bit jealous at first, because I hadn’t wanted to share you. Of course, you hadn’t been the first man we’d taken to our bed, but you were the first that we’d both fallen for, and I couldn’t deny her her love for you.”

Thomas swept his thumb over James’, squeezing his fist between his fingers, grounding him. “I know you were with her that night,” he said, choking back a crack in the last word. “She’d told me she was meeting you and - my father had been right outside the door. And then he’d disappeared that night. And then they’d found her on that cliff. And him…”

He looked off down the street, cycling through a well deserved sigh and blinking back the tears. “I’ve had a lot of time to process it since you’ve been gone. And maybe one day, when you’re ready, we can sit down and discuss it.” Thomas raised his other hand and brought it to the hinge of James’ tense jaw, lifting his head so that he could look directly into his frantic eyes. “But right now,” he sniffled, his bottom lip trembling, “all I need to know is that you understand my forgiveness. I don’t blame you. I don’t hate you. And I don’t need to know what happened that night to know that you did everything you could to keep her safe. I know that because I know you.”

James felt his whole body shudder, a quavering voice pushing out, “I tried to stop him.”

Thomas nodded, scrunching his brow, hand pressing firmly into the nape of James’ neck. “I know you did.”

“I tried,” James repeated, breaths shaking violently.

“I know,” Thomas could barely say. “I know you did, my darling.”

“I - I couldn’t--” James was pulled into a hug so tight that it practically squeezed the tears from him. “I’m sor-ry.”

Thomas’ hands slid behind James’ head as James buried his face into his shoulder. He breathed into James’ hair, leaving small kisses along his temple and beside his ear. “I forgive you,” he whispered into him, letting his own tears soak into James’ skin. “I forgive you.”

He’d thought he’d go to his grave with this secret - an early grave built on hypertension and a subsequent heart attack on the heels of a life buried under a bottle and in a daze of medications. But there, on that sidewalk, Thomas had given him permission to live again. He’d breathed new life into James with his words, and maybe James didn’t quite know exactly what had happened in that moment, but he’d certainly felt the difference. He’d felt the weight lift off of him, his chest and shoulders softening with his sobs. His body was letting it go, and with hope, his mind would eventually catch up too.

Crying was not something James was unaccustomed to, spending countless collective hours doing so over Miranda, but doing it in front of Thomas was cleansing in a way that all of his previous bouts in a scalding shower could never rival. Was this even possible? Could he truly let this go? Would his own self-loathing even allow for Thomas’ forgiveness now?

James stretched his arms across Thomas’ back, melting into his warm embrace as the world around them began to edge its way back into his senses. The streets began to fill with heavier traffic than before. People starting their days, joggers, workers, police men & women passing them upon the nearby steps, and they should have probably taken this conversation to the car, to his home, somewhere far more private than a public sidewalk, but somehow, it was still only them. Everything else was acknowledged, yes, but everything else also hadn’t mattered. Everything else had only existed outside of this moment.

“Now can we _please_ see to your bloody car?” Thomas joked, still sniffling into James’ ear.

  
  
**oo**  
  


The line trilled for the fifth time as James walked over to his car and checked to see if any of the doors were open. He stood on the sidewalk, looking up at John’s fire escape and the closed window leading to it. Maybe he wasn’t home. But since John wasn’t answering his phone either, and James couldn’t very well get into his car or his apartment without his damn keys, he really had no other choice.

He pushed the front door of the building open and made his way up the steps.

_Maybe someday we can try again._

The words were still ringing in James’ ears, echoes along the walls of his fragile psyche. They’d probably replay for weeks, or even months, reliving the scenario over and over as his obsessive mind was inclined to do. He should have said this. He should have done that. He shouldn’t have let Thomas go without explaining everything to him right then and there - how, in a fit of rage, he’d killed a man; tossed him scratching and wailing right off of that stony cliff - though, perhaps he’d known already. Thomas was an intelligent man. But James… James still hadn’t admitted it.

What kind of a man was _he_?

A pause on the steps and a head shake just before reaching John’s floor. A selfish man - that was the answer whispered back to him between the beige walls of the staircase. It was a truth James had wanted to rage against, a lie James had wanted so desperately to believe, and that battle waged on, constantly, unconcerned with his inability to choose a side. But no man was ever _all_ of a thing. He was selfish, yes, but also, he was not. If only the poor man would just let himself be.

Maybe someday they could try again. Someday when secrets hadn’t built a wall of bodies and distance between them. James would be able to look Thomas in the eye and tell him exactly what he’d done to Alfred Hamilton that night. With his head held high he’d show Thomas the darkness which he’d long since accepted of himself but was too ashamed to share with another soul. One day he would admit that he had but only one regret from that tragic night: that he hadn’t killed Thomas’ wretched excuse for a father sooner.

But that day was not today.

Today, right this instant, James only longed for his terrace, to fall asleep with a bottle of whisky slipping loosely from his fingers. He was so tired. The last thing he’d wanted was another conversation. And he surely didn’t deserve anything that could come even remotely close to resembling comfort. He didn’t want to be thanked by John, to be hugged, to be taken in warm regard by a man who’d been battling demons far larger and darker than his for years longer. James sighed at the thought of having to explain to John why he’d done what he’d done last night.

The burn of the shower and the burn of the drink began its familiar call to him, a siren on the seas of his own mental wreckage. He’d have to develop some better coping skills - eventually, yes - but first, he’d have to make it up the fucking steps.

James lugged himself up, settling a hand against John’s doorframe and leaning in to listen. Nothing. He knocked a few times and waited. When John didn’t answer, he pulled out his phone and tried calling him yet again.

The beginnings of a familiar punk song played faintly from behind the door. James remembered it from that night at _The Colonial Dawn._ That night that he and John had taught that homophobic prick a lesson. John had smiled at him from across the moonlit alley and asked James if they had just become friends, and James had went home and found himself with an inexplicable need to take a cold shower for a change.

The song cut off abruptly, just before John’s voicemail message played into James’ other ear.

He knocked a bit louder this time, then called again. The same song played from inside the apartment, but nothing else happened. Where the fuck was he?

Beginning to get antsy, James absently tried the door.

He hadn’t expected it to be open, though. The hinges squeaked as he pushed and went stiff with his unexpected access. “John?” he called through the narrow slot.

With a breath of conviction, James entered, eyes darting around the dim apartment. All of the lights were off and the blinds were drawn, leaving only small slants of light which gave the living room a subtle glow. A tiny blue light blinked on John’s kitchen island and next to the phone sat James’ keys.

“John?” James tried again, walking over to the counter and pocketing them.

He took a few more steps into the space between the living room and the hallway when he noticed a faint light floating out of the doorway to John’s bedroom. He paused, bringing the tiniest portion of his bottom lip between his teeth. He should leave. The man obviously didn’t want to be bothered. He was probably asleep... or in a drug induced coma. For the love of God and all things holy, please let the man simply be asleep.

A few more steps, each one heavier than the last. James approached the doorway.

“John,” he said softly, following the light.

He tapped on the frame of the opened door with his knuckles, trying to announce his presence without startling anyone. As he stepped in, he noticed the door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, casting a blurred yellow light onto the empty bed and its carelessly disheveled bedsheets.

The room was in shambles - clothes thrown about, lamps knocked over, the television lying face down on the floor. James brought his hand up to a fist-sized hole in the wall beside him, the familiarity of such a scene building a knot in the pit of his chest.

He stepped around John’s belongings and edged toward the bathroom door. “John, it’s James,” he tried again. “Are you here?”

Silence.

Another step and a short crack as something rolled beneath his foot. James bent and took it into his hand, the empty pill bottle forcing his stomach quickly up into his throat. He pushed into the bathroom without a second thought.

“Bloody hell,” he sighed, grabbing his forehead. “Jesus, John. Why didn’t you answer me? I thought you’d…”

James swallowed a breath of relief with a chaser of trepidation, splitting frenzied blinks between a frozen John and a littered bathroom floor. He pulled his hand through his hair, trying to make sense of the disarray.

“John?” he tried, his voice smoky in the suffocating stillness.

When that got no response, James crossed over the toppled shower curtain rod and toed the mess of towels and toiletries aside until his feet could find tiled floor again, but even the sound of his lumbering approach did nothing to break John of his stupor. The man simply stared himself down in the bathroom mirror as if James hadn’t entered at all.

Still, James inched forward, feeling extremely out of place in what he understood to be an intensely private moment. He found John’s face in the water stained mirror, eyes completely glossed over and much more unfocused than James had initially thought _._ Immediately, he knew what that vacant stare meant.

This must be what Thomas had felt, he thought, a helpless disconcertment stretching fully through him now. Before James had taken to exacting his rage upon his office instead of their bedroom, Thomas had come home to his fair share of messes with no explanations other than swollen knuckles and absent apologies. And although James knew this scene well, this headspace, the outward destruction necessary to quiet the rabid struggle within, never had he felt so ill-prepared to navigate that place in another. It was admittedly disheartening and completely different on the other side of the mirror.

“John,” he muttered.

John’s back remained to him, with nothing but the slight shift of skin above his lungs and the fact that he was standing upright to let James know that he was coherent. After a brief hesitation, James placed a modest touch to John’s shoulder.

At that, John’s eyes immediately filled with all they’d been lacking but a second before. A blink transformed them into a sea of sadness, of fear and weary caution.

“I’m not this person,” John whispered into the mirror. “I’m not this - monster who does this to people...”

He raised a hand, bruised knuckles along with a glint of metal between his fingers. Undoing the coil of one of his locks, John angled a razor blade and hacked a random chunk of it clean off. His mouth fell open, a breath tumbled out, and James watched as the tuft of hair floated to the floor and joined itself with all the others.

James had shaved all of his hair off once. Just after Miranda died. And he’d never really thought about why, he just - grabbed a pair of scissors one day and decided the weight of his hair was a bit too much for an already heavy head. It’d made sense at the time, so. Seeing John do it wasn’t particularly shocking. If anything, it’d only made him feel as if he understood him that much more.

A new intensity slowly overtook John, breaths of relief and frustration pulsing with charged and vulnerable shivers, all of which caused his shirtless body to demand James’ attention despite the man’s better judgment. He was in his underwear - red boxers slung inexorably low against the cut of his hips - and James immediately felt a gnarl of guilt creep in for even noticing it, for feeling the magnetism, for watching the heave of John’s shoulders and back as he fought against his own tremors, for seeing the sensuality of this man in such a volatile state. John was so irrevocably damaged, so beautifully broken, and James wanted nothing more than to crawl into that fractured abyss and become _his_ escape this time. He’d let it swallow him whole if it meant he could feel this type of passion again.

John’s eyes slid over to James’, his energy certain and abounding, and James felt his throat close around whatever was left of his current breath.

“Do you think I’m a monster?” John asked softly.

It was a question James had found himself asking into his own mirrors on countless occasions, but even with all that experience with it, he’d never allowed himself a definitive answer. He studied John in the mirror, unable to move, to speak, still caught in and ashamed of his unwitting lust over the darkness of another. He was frozen in this morbid moment right along with John, but he knew that he had to say something, so.

“Everyone is a monster to someone.”

The words caused John’s penetrative gaze to finally fall away, giving James a chance at a normal breath and another chastisement of his subconscious want. Was he so remarkably broken himself that he couldn’t find the courage to be physical unless the other person was completely disarmed? John was fucking fighting for his life right now. And yes, that was brave, and admirable, and inspiring, but - the last thing that James should’ve felt was aroused.

“I can’t be Silver anymore…” The razor blade shook in John’s hand as a haze came over him again. His eyes went empty. “I can’t. I have to be someone new now.”

He raised it to his hair once more, a futile attempt to physically alter that which could not be mentally changed, but James was pressing his hand around John’s before he could do any more damage.

“You don’t understand. Without this band, I’m nothing,” he admitted, looking directly at James through the bathroom mirror. “I’m no one--”

“That’s not true,” said James, carefully prying the razor from John’s fingers.

“--I’m worthless. I’m not good at anything else.”

James set the blade down on the corner of the sink then brought his hands to what remained of John’s tousled tresses. He pulled them out of his face, gathering them up as best he could and wrapping them all around themselves until they formed a messy bun, no longer able to tempt John with their apparent relation to Silver. Curled strands fell out of place from where John had made some of his earlier cuts.

“When Jack finds out what I’ve done to you...”

John shook his head and let it fall forward in defeat, but James pressed a kiss into the nape of his neck and said, “You didn’t _do_ anything.” He smoothed his hands all the way down John’s arms, settling his chin into the crook of his shoulder. “ _I did it,_ ” he finished.

John trembled beneath the breath of James’ words and the sliding warmth of his palms, hair prickling up and goosebumps trickling down in their wake.

“Why?” he sighed.

James knew about Jack’s ultimatum. John had told him one night over dinner and it’d certainly stayed with him. It’d definitely been a part of the reason why James had taken the fall for John, but he’d’ve be lying if he’d said that it was anywhere near the deciding factor. And that was still something which he hadn’t any desire to discuss or parse through as of yet.

So, “You know why,” he said instead.

Again, the words shivered down John’s spine, back muscles tensing and releasing against James’ chest and stomach.

“Are you going to get fired?” John asked, finally lifting his head and looking into the mirror again.

James met him there, unflinchingly, knowing that John’s eyes were waiting for him. “Probably,” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop.”

“Fuck. Fuck, I didn’t mean - I didn’t think that--”

“John…”

“--you would do something so fucking stu--”

A soft hum was all John had managed next, cheek flush against James’ insistent palm and lips buried beneath equally adamant lips. James nudged his chest over then around John’s shoulder and soon the rest of his body followed. He squeezed himself between John and the sink, pulled both sides of John’s face into his, and this time, the silence was a welcomed one.

When they broke for air some seconds later, bodies still pressed together, John quietly scanned James’ face - eyes, nose, lips, nose, eyes again. His hands clutched the porcelain which James was now securely backed against, still managing to respect James’ boundaries, still, even in this tumultuous state.

Blue eyes alight now, wide and burning for him, James shook something in John which seemed to have put all of his prior demons to bed (even if only for a moment). And the thought of the strength that took - the thought of the energy built up within John which had turned his apartment into a theatre of war, which had punched holes into his walls, cut shreds out of his hair, left no article unravaged - the thought of it had only succeeded in turning James on more.

The tip of John’s tongue peeked out from beyond his slightly parted lips, cresting along the corner of his mouth in thought before retreating to say, “I don’t think you’ll want to do that again.” Breathy, yet strong and sure, he added, “I don’t have much in the way of restraint right now.”

James lowered his hand along John’s jaw, ghosting his thumb until it was sweeping across the part of John’s lip where his tongue had left a bit of saliva behind. John leaned forward slightly, closing his lips around James' thumb and dragging his teeth all the way down from the first knuckle to the nail.

It hurt so fucking good.

Before James knew anything else his fingers were lost inside the nest of John’s hair, his mouth pressing against his, fighting a losing battle with propriety. John immediately tried to unclasp James’ coat, hands fumbling with unfamiliarity and an apparently stubborn refusal to tear his lips away for a second - just a second in order to look down and figure the stupid fucking thing out.

But a second was too long.

James assisted, eventually, reluctant to pull his hands from their velvety trappings to help John figure the buttons out, but once he did his coat was gone and that was one less layer to contend with. One less boundary between them.

John slid his hands beneath James’ shirt - none of that prior care to buffer the overwhelming feeling of skin against skin which caused James to gasp against John’s lips. He pushed into James’ mouth and body as if he were trying to be absorbed by the man, simultaneously pulling him close, enveloping him, all teeth and nails and warm hardness.

Lightheaded. Faint. James let out a staggered sound that sounded just the wrong side of desperate. He finally allowed one hand to fall away from John’s hair, heat swelling up his sides and chest, ears thrumming with the sound of his racing pulse. He grounded himself in the muscles of John’s arm, in the soft burn of his mustache against his lips, silently screaming for him to stop but also for him to just let it fucking happen.

He forced his hand to John’s side, wanting with every exchanged breath to push him away and to pull him close. James managed a squeeze into his flesh as the only way to reconcile the two. His thumb made it’s way down the outer range of John’s stomach muscles and finally tucked itself into the waistband of his boxers before John actually made a sound of his own.

He grabbed James’ wrist, pulled away, trying to hide a wince with a slight turn of his body and a drop of his head. James immediately let go.

“What - what is it?”

James cocked his head, angling it to be able to get a better view of John’s hip, but John was backing away before James could make any sense out of what had just happened.

He tugged lightly on his waistband, a look of timidity and a touch of panic quietly tensing his features. “You should go,” he said.

With that, John turned and left James alone in the mess that was once his bathroom, and James stood there for a moment, surveying the room as if somewhere within its wreckage lay the answers John had refused to give. He turned and grabbed his coat from behind him, but the odd sound of something sliding against the porcelain caught his attention. He turned back curiously, realizing that it was the razor blade which he’d set there earlier. It’d slipped down the curve of the sink.

James stared at it for a moment, only deciding to confiscate it after he’d granted himself permission to do the kind of analysis which John had made so clear felt like an all out betrayal. He’d promised John that he wouldn’t treat him like a patient, that he wasn’t trying to fix him but - he figured, just this once. Maybe John wouldn’t even notice his intervention.

He reached for the blade, paused, turned his hand over and squinted at it in confusion. The bridge of skin between his index finger and thumb was smudged a subtle red. James turned his hand over again, not remembering there being blood when he’d pried the razor blade from John’s hands earlier.

Christ. He reached for the thing again, picking it up this time and wrapping it in some toilet paper before putting it into his coat pocket. For some reason he felt angry. It was brief, and James had swallowed it down before he’d made his way out of the bathroom but, he felt like John should’ve told him something like this. He didn’t know why. He wasn’t exactly entitled to the anyone’s tragic backstory - but he should have fucking told him. James felt completely blindsided.

John was pulling a t shirt down over his ribs when James saw him again, his other hand pulling a cigarette from his mouth.

“I thought you didn’t smoke inside of your apartment,” James said, trying to seem as casual and unthreatening as possible.

John spun around and looked at James, and James was immediately grateful that he couldn’t read the expression on John’s face in the dim light. His anxiety was already taking its toll.

“Well, maybe you don’t know me as fucking well as you thought,” John returned.

“John--”

“Don’t,” he warned, and it was crisp, dark, and final.

He passed James and grabbed a pair of jeans from off of the floor. Securing his cigarette between his lips, he sat on his bed and put them on, exhaling smoke through his nose.

James watched him a moment, unsure of how best to proceed. Eventually, he realized that standing there was accomplishing nothing short of making himself more anxious and John more uncomfortable, so he tossed his coat onto John’s bed and walked over to the window. He drew the curtains and let the light in.

Turning on his bed as if this was a personal affront to his very existence, John glared at James, as much as a person could manage a glare through a pair of eyes which weren’t acclimated to daylight yet. “What the fuck are you doing?” he asked, getting to his feet.

He walked around the bed and over to James, then reached for the curtains beside him. James latched onto his wrist.

John pulled against James’ grip. “Let - go - what the fuck?”

It wasn’t courage. To be honest, James had no fucking idea what it was that was spurring these actions along. But he went with it. He went with it because he knew that doing nothing was simply not an option. And neither was leaving.

With his other hand, he made a fist in John’s shirt, right above the hip that had made John pull away before.

“Wh- Stop it!” John ordered, wrapping his other hand around James’ wrist now. He pushed down as James pulled upward, trying to stop him from lifting his shirt. “Fucking stop! What the f-”

Disdain instantly changed into distress as John’s voice broke off into erratic panting. His cigarette fell from his lips, turning to embers and ash beneath scrambling feet. He shook with his efforts to hold both his tears and the man in front of him at bay, failing miserably at both.

“Please,” he begged. “Please just - just don’t.”

But John hadn’t let James run away that cold night on his fire escape, and James wasn’t about to let John run away on this cold morning in his bedroom either. He’d play the villain if it meant that John would no longer torture himself this way. He was totally fine with that. Shit, he was even _comfortable_ with that. He’d be his monster if that’s what it took for John to make it through.

John squeezed his eyes shut, pressing himself back into the wall and turning his head as if all of this was some secret he’d wanted to keep from James _and_ himself. His nails sunk into James’ wrist as the man overpowered him and finally lifted his shirt.

Thin slits of varying lengths and colors stacked themselves up from John’s hipbone. John fell silent, save for his trembling. He withdrew his nails from James’ wrist but, strangely enough, let his fingers remain.

James moved slowly, deliberately, honoring the access he’d been given as if he hadn't just fought for it. He instinctively wanted to look away, understanding how intensely violated John must’ve felt in that moment, but James brought his hand to John’s waistband and tugged down anyway. Two fresh incisions from today, still pink and smeared, appeared over more of the older ones.

John sucked in a breath through his teeth, prompting James to look back over at him. He wanted to keep going, to push his jeans out of the way and see just how far down John’s leg these mutilations had travelled, but he carefully let John’s underwear fall back against his skin instead.

By now John’s face was vacant, eyes empty again, tears catching in his mustache and goatee.

“Why?” James whispered.

When John didn’t answer, didn’t move at all, James took his chin into his hands and pulled his head back in his direction. “I’m here,” he spoke lightly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Finally, John’s eyes found his again. “Please, go.”

“No.”

“Please.”

James pressed his forehead into John’s. “No.”

“I don’t want to ruin you…”

“You won’t.”

“I will.”

“You won’t,” James kissed into him. “You won’t.”

“I don’t--”

“John.”

“I can’t let you,” he resisted, pushing James away from him.

But James held fast to John’s neck, bringing his face toward his own and kissing promises into his skin where all of his words were falling short.

“I don’t want to ruin you,” John repeated, breaths ragged against James' chin.

James felt himself grimace, the realization swelling up behind his eyes and causing him to lean steadfast into John’s lips, hands sweeping up into his hair. He’d inhale this man if he could, his essence, his darkness, his boldness, his demons, all of it. He’d let John Silver devour all that was left of him for a chance at this kind of love. This rollercoaster. This train wreck. This beautiful disaster that pushed James past the point of simply existing. And that was the scariest fucking thing that James had ever felt in his entire life. To want someone that badly. To need them like an addict needed another hit. To find a reason to keep going, to keep pushing, living in the eyes of another mere mortal.

James drank him in, melted over him, fighting against John’s tremors with his own.

“I’m already ruined,” he sighed into his lips. “I’m already ruined.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> As always, I love you guys and appreciate your amazing feedback and tremendous personal and artistic support throughout this entire endeavor. This particular chapter was difficult for me, but I made it through *self high-5* so I hope you enjoyed the feels trip! :D 
> 
> Thanks for reading. 
> 
> Love & Rockets,  
> Trinity


	11. But if You Never Try You'll Never Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, a brief musical interlude.

He felt absolutely preposterous in the thing - not anything against leather per se, but - the simple notion that the intimidating fabric would somehow help him blend into his surroundings (whilst simultaneously shielding him from them) made him admittedly more uncomfortable than confident. James tugged at the cotton cuffs of the black bomber jacket. The black newsboy cap he was donning only added to his out of place feeling, but it was the sole hat in his possession and he’d wanted to keep as low a profile as possible. Snob, of course, was  _ not _ the word.

He swirled his Macallan around the snifter and took a quick sniff before a sip, dark cherry, vanilla, and sherry wine mingling with a hint of oak. It wasn’t the shittiest whisky he’d ever tasted. It’d do the job well enough if he drank it neat and kept it coming, which he did, and by the fourth round he’d started to feel less like a sore thumb on a fist and more like a fly on one of the deep crimson walls of the place, wary of someone recognizing him and possibly fanning him down.

The high-top bar table he’d picked was in the very rear of the room, close to the bar but also close to an exit. James always sat facing an entrance, tucked away in the farthest corners, scanning the room for things to avoid, potential threats, persons of interest. It was something he’d learned had helped with his anxiety when large crowds met with close quarters. He couldn’t control the situation, sure - or the people, constant variables shifting against the music, in and out of multiple doors, consuming liquid courage and laughing far too loudly for anything to really be that funny - but he could most certainly map out the place: bathrooms on either side of the main room, stage approximately 75 feet away, emergency exit to the right, bar to the immediate right, security posted at the entrance in front of him and the steps to the VIP lounge behind him. He’d known the lay of the land before he’d even ordered his drink. And that was the way of it. Always. He’d wanted to blend in, but in all honesty, he knew he could never just let himself be.

So, it was extremely off-putting when a long-haired beauty in a striped black & white jacket perched herself atop the barstool across from him, plopping her elbow down on the small roundtable between them and taking a sip of an electric blue drink with 3 different fruit on the rim. He really should have seen her coming. The whisky must have been working its magic.

She stared at him from over the rim of her glass, hazel eyes content with making him work for the mild feeling of familiarity that was pulling at the frayed ribbons of his memory. He knew her face, but he couldn’t place her. 

“I am genuinely surprised to find you in such a place,” she said, just loud enough to be heard over the music without losing her accent within its volume. 

And suddenly, James remembered. “Likewise,” he replied, scrunching his eyebrows. 

She smiled sweetly and raised her own. “Are you here to see John?”

James nodded, gripped tight by the urge to look away from her knowing expression and hide his immediate embarrassment. He managed to hold her gaze despite it. “I seem to recall you saying something about supporting each other,” he joked, glancing down at his drink and palming it as if his touch could somehow transform it into something he’d feel less self-conscious about. 

“I doubt that you were present for that particular meeting,” she quipped. 

James smuggled a smile through the rim of his glass. “Max, right?” he asked after a sip. 

“ _Ah_ , you _were_ paying attention!”  

She extended her free hand, letting it dangle over the table, delicate yet firm. And James shook it, eventually, remembering that he’d never bothered to give his name to anyone that night.

 “James,” he amended. 

Max’s smile widened. “I knew it.” She pulled her hand away and set her chin upon it, leaning into the space between them as if she were chatting up an old friend. “He has never told me exactly who you are, but he speaks of you all the time. How handsome you are. How intelligent. How ‘out of his league’ he believes you to be.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes at the thought, that subtle curl of her lip never faltering. “When I noticed you sitting here, alone, I knew that you had to be  _ James _ . I could never forget how enamoured with you he was during that meeting.” 

James made an effort to return her comforting smile but the diffidence he felt at the thought of John actually talking about him with others forced it to tighten into a smirk. “I don’t think enamoured is the right word,” he said, quietly reflecting on their first encounter. “He was downright antagonistic.”

Flickering club lights played tricks with the glow of Max’s drink as she nodded. She plucked an orange slice from the rim of her glass. “He was,” she grinned in agreement, peeling the flesh of the fruit from the skin, "but when you know a person as well as I know John Silver, you are not fooled by the facade. You see, he flirts with everyone - that is his nature, _oui?_ But the one whom he truly desires is the one he subconsciously pushes away."  

She popped a piece of orange into her mouth and looked off toward the stage as if she hadn’t just dropped jewels onto that wobbly table dividing them. John had certainly pushed James away that morning after the arrest. He’d kicked James out of his apartment, a fit of rage bubbling up between resentful shoves and desperate clutches, all curses and kisses and scratches that still burned along the back of James’ neck. 

James unintentionally ran a finger along his nape, reliving the raised and calloused edge of one of such mixed messages. He hadn’t wanted to leave John, not like that, but the man had given him no choice. 

“The look on your face suggests that he has managed to achieve this yet again,” Max guessed.

“I’m sorry?”

“He does not know you are here, does he?” she asked, more statement than question. “He has pushed you away.”

Max’s eyes were piercing, hawk-like, boring into James in a way that made him feel as if lying to her would be futile, but also entirely unnecessary. It really wasn’t her business, but. That  _ was _ why he had brought himself to The Gallows’ premiere tonight. That  _ was  _ why he was sitting in the very back of the room, hoping not to be discovered. He’d wanted to respect John’s wishes, but, he’d also wanted… 

James neither confirmed nor denied her acumen, choosing instead to finish his drink.

This, however, was of no consequence to Max, and she didn’t miss a beat as she offered her next thought. “He will be happy to see you,” she said, resting a soft hand over the unconscious fist James was making. “Do not worry.”

James’ eyes darted down to the gesture, the contact just beginning to sting before Max lifted her hand and nestled the palm of it up underneath her chin again. And he wanted to ask how she could be so sure. She wasn’t there; she hadn’t seen. John had yelled at him, demanded that James leave his place and never return, fists clenched and brows knit above humiliated eyes. 

Max hadn’t seen the way John had pushed him toward the door with every ounce of strength that he could muster, or how James had wrapped his arms around him until the doorframe had pressed hard into his back.  _ Get the fuck out  _ is what John had said, but the fists he’d made in James’ shirt, the tears he’d soaked into his shoulder...

James shouldn’t have fucking left him.

“I’m sure I’m the farthest thing from his mind tonight,” James deflected, hiding his hands beneath the table in order to rub Max’s touch away, “and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Pink lips pressing tight, concern quickly overtook Max’s face. “Why do you say this?” 

James gestured toward the stage with a tilt of his head. “Look around,” he said. He’d already taken mental note of the photographers, the video cameras, the scarcity of Jack Rackham when such a thing as Jack Rackham’s scarcity before a performance was virtually unheard of. “This is a rather important night for him - for the band. I’d just be an unwelcome distraction and I - that’s--”

“That is not true,” said Max, prompting James to look up from his covert hand-wringing in subtle confusion. 

And then, she was smiling at him again. Infectious. A twinkle in her eye that hinted toward a natural comfort in her own skin and a surety in her words. James could see how she and John could be close friends. Already, she’d made James feel as if no judgment would befall him, even as his shame for drinking in front of her had already tried threatening otherwise.

“Do you know that Anne and I are together?”

James readjusted in his seat, trying to make sense of the blatant change in subject. “No, I - I thought she was with Jack.”

“She is,” Max said matter-of-factly. “And also, she is with me.” 

The concept wasn’t all that foreign to James. He’d heard of polyamory before, and Christ, that could have very well been his own fate if Miranda were still alive. But he didn’t quite understand what any of that had to do with what they’d just been discussing. He nodded for lack of a more fitting response.

“You are wondering why I am telling you this?”

“Yes,” James admitted through a small chuckle.

Max returned a smirk, running her thumb along the rim of her glass and finally granting James some semblance of reprieve from her disarming stare. “I was not unlike you,” she said. “People of our nature… we can smell it on each other - the pain, the brokenness. It is how John and I first forged our bond.”

She glanced up at James and then over toward the stage. James unintentionally followed her gaze. “When I met Anne, I was instantly drawn to her. But - she was a dangerous thing. So angry. And completely inaccessible in her fortress.

“John was teaching her how to play the bass while singing. Apparently, no easy feat.” She turned to find James’ eyes again. “I had perceived its effects on her, her discontent, her frustration, a longing that apparently Jack did not see or did not care to examine. John saw it too. And of course, neither of us had intended to blame her lack of satisfaction on Jack, but…”

“...You blamed it on Jack.”

“We blamed it on Jack,” Max giggled. “He was so obsessed with this… manifestation of his vision - her individual needs became secondary. But even knowing all of this, I was still terrified of what pursuing her would mean for the both of us.” She took a second to gather her thoughts, wetting her lips before continuing. “I had come to know the depths of her melancholy. And I felt as if I could give her what she needed, but I was not certain that she would ever allow me to see what truly lived beyond her shield.”

James began to see the parallel. Anne had pushed Max away too. 

“So, what happened?”

“Well. I took a risk. One night after a rehearsal John had invited me to, we were all in his apartment, drinking stale beer, eating Chinese food out of the cartons. He had just moved in and had not bothered to buy himself any proper plates.” She paused to smile fondly. “I remember - Anne was in quite a mood that evening. She disappeared. So, I simply went after her, found her sitting at John's desk, and I made an attempt to comfort her.”

“I’m guessing that didn’t go over very well.”

“You would be guessing correctly,” Max grinned. “She put a knife to my throat.”

“Jesus.”

“And I kissed her anyway.”

James watched as Max brought her drink to her lips, funneling his curiosity into a slight head tilt and a discerning squint. “So you’re suggesting that I - go after John? Ignoring this”--he gestured to his neck--“metaphorical knife at my throat?”

“No.” She set her drink down again. “You have already done that.”

Confusion sunk deeper into the creases along James’ forehead.

“I am simply suggesting that you continue to fight for him. That you continue to push back against the sting of that blade until John no longer feels any need to hold onto it. You cannot allow him to get swallowed up by his own darkness, you see? If you do, you will lose him to it.”

But James had already lost John. He wasn't at the concert to fight for him. He hadn’t even considered trying to win him back. The loss had already been reconciled, forced into this narrow idea of what was best for the both of them. And John had made himself abundantly clear. James didn't need anymore help falling short. 

“You speak as if you’ve seen this before.”

“I have.”

“And yet, you think that I can somehow be the exception?”

“I do not think it, James. I know it,” Max insisted, taking another sip of her drink.

James snorted. “How many of those have you had?”

“These,” she spoke up, “are non-alcoholic. But even a drunkard could see what you are either too blind or too fucking stubborn to notice.”

“It’s not stubbornness - it’s reality. It’s called ‘being an adult.’ I can’t give John what he needs. Why would I continue to--”

“And what is it that John needs?”

“Love.”

“And you think that you cannot come to love him?”

“I don’t think it. I know it,” James mocked.

At that, Max returned a smirk. “Then, you must forgive me,” she said, cocking her head to the side in an obviously fake bemusement. “There is still something that seems to be confusing me. If you are so convinced that this relationship is a lost cause,” she crinkled her brows for added effect, “please help me understand. What exactly are you doing here?”

James opened his mouth in rebuttal but quickly shut it in want for one. He was simply there to support John. That’s all. It wasn’t some big romantic gesture. He wasn’t looking for recognition. His presence was just… his way of… caring. He’d never said he was incapable of that.

Lamenting the emptiness of his glass, James sat back in his seat in hopes that the dim lights of the club would mask the obvious tension in his jaw.

“He told me about that night at  _ The Hills  _ \- what you did for him.”

_ Fuck. _ James didn’t mean to roll his eyes but, “It was nothing.”

“Getting arrested for someone else is hardly nothing, James.”

His name hung funny in the air between them every time she’d used it, blunted slightly by the edge of French pronunciation, and James couldn’t tell if it was the inflection or the insinuation behind it that seemed to annoy him this time.

“It was nothing,” he reaffirmed. “It was simply the best possible outcome.”

“Really? For whom?” She pushed her drink aside in order to cross her arms on the table, long black hair falling in waves over her shoulders as she leaned in. “Because I am fairly certain that this was not the best possible outcome for  _ you _ , but please, do correct me if I am wrong.”

A grin crept across James face, but it wasn’t the kind of grin that expressed pleasure with the sentiment. It was stiff, almost predatory. A half-smile and half-snarl that James had hoped communicated his dismissal of what Max was angling toward, and maybe even a bit of his insult at the thought that she could mentally outmaneuver him about his own damn feelings.

“What is it that you’re implying?” he asked gruffly.

“I am simply trying to show you what you refuse to see.”

“And what is that?”

“That you do not have to worry about never being able to show John love, because you already have.”

James let out a breath, part sigh part laugh. This - was infatuation. It wasn’t love. The simple notion made something jump high in his throat. What he and John shared had been far too unhealthy to even be considered as love. And the more that he thought about it, the more dangerous the idea became. James shouldn’t have even been here. Why the hell was Max pushing so hard?

“You - honestly, you have zero -  _ no _ fucking idea what you’re talking about,” he rejected. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Max sat back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap and studying James as if he were a map that still needed a few more recalculations before a successful navigation. 

“You are right. I do not know you,” she conceded. “But let me tell you what I do know: I know that you are sitting here and you do not want John to know it. I know that you care about his success enough to consider yourself a distraction. I know that you wish to support him, and whether or not that is recognized by anyone else is irrelevant. I know that you are privy to his lesser attributes, and to a past that makes most people too - too  _ afraid _ to invest in him fully. And I know… I know that you have made a huge sacrifice in order to keep him safe despite this, and that that very next morning, you were braving the aftermath of that sacrifice.”

And suddenly, the room was far too cold, the music far too loud, burying his thoughts and Max’s words within its aggressive waves. James let out a breath, not wanting to abandon his own facade but feeling it crumble by the second, regardless.

“I also know that John has done everything in his power to push you away,” Max pressed on, “because that is what John does, James - but you, you are here because, deep down, you know that being abandoned again is the very last thing that John truly wants.  _ You know this _ .” She tapped the table for emphasis. “You feel it. You feel it like the breath you are currently holding in, burning in the pit of your chest. I know that you do not want to be yet another person who is too afraid of John’s darkness to find those banks full of roses hidden beneath his cypresses. And if that is not love, I am at a loss for a term that is any better suited.”

And maybe it was James’ own reluctance to parse the fragments of John which he’d been disallowed. He had so many pieces of the puzzle, but in respecting John’s wishes, in honoring his words,  _ ‘Don’t fucking psychoanalyze me’ _ , James hadn’t been putting his own skills to use. He’d been taking John at face value, and maybe… maybe that had been the problem all along.

Immediately bringing his awareness to the muscles in his face and what they were already betraying, James swallowed and ran a shaky hand over the scruff of his beard. “Does he tell you everything?” he asked, feeling his voice too faint for Max to have possibly heard from across the table.

“I am his friend,” Max said in an equally soft tone, bringing her hand back into her lap, “but also his sponsor. He calls me in times of crisis - when he feels the threat of using again.”

The thought made something turn sour within him. James would never forgive himself should he turn into the reason for John’s relapse. Fuck. He shouldn’t be here. No, shit, he didn’t want to abandon him but he should not fucking be here. His own feelings didn’t matter. One cannot love another person back onto the wagon.

“Ay,” a jarring voice forced James from his thoughts.

“Hey!” Max called back.

James looked up in time to catch a splash of long blonde hair leaning into Max for a kiss. Max grabbed the other woman’s hat and immediately placed it on her own head.

“You’re blonde!”

“I know,” the woman said between kisses. “Jack and his grand fucking ideas, yeah?”

“I hate it,” Max laughed. 

“Fuck!” Anne kissed her again, wrapping her hand around the back of Max’s neck. “Don’t worry. Shite’s gonna be red again t’morrow. There’s no goddamn way in bloody hell--”

Max cut off her words with another kiss, “Thank goodness,” and then another after that. James looked away once words gave way to tongues. 

“You should be getting ready,” Max resumed.

“Aye. That’s why I came t’ find you.”

“Oh?”

Anne grabbed both of Max’s hands, interlocking their fingers. “Jack’s being a bloody arsehole - got my nerves in a right fucking mess.”

“Do I need to go back there?”

“No, it’s - I just need you… I need you to say it.”

A small smile quirked into the cheek that James could see. Max pulled one hand from Anne’s clutch and smoothed it across her girlfriend’s face. Anne shut her eyes and leaned into the touch. She grabbed Max’s wrist softly as fingers swooped into her hair.

“You are beautiful. You are talented. You are strong. You are wise. You are Anne-fucking-Bonny. Punk Goddess. On that stage or off it.”

Anne’s shoulders rose and fell with a cleansing breath. “I love you so--” She interrupted herself with a kiss. “--fucking much.” 

She opened her eyes to find Max’s undivided attention. “Not as much as I love you, but we can certainly fight about it later if you find yourself in disagreement.”

Anne bit her lip while Max retrieved her hat, placing it securely upon her lover’s head as if it were a crown. 

“Am I good?”

Max tugged a bit of the brim down over Anne’s right eye. “Perfect.”

“Make sure you stand where I can see you,” Anne said after a final kiss. 

“There is no place else I would rather stand,” Max said back, letting go of Anne’s hand and watching her disappear into the crowd.

  
  
  
  
  


A stroke of guitar strings. A clap of drums and high-hats. A prickly warmth that crawled up James’ arms, cooling across his chest and settling into the middle of his torso. He deliberately uncurled his fingers from the palm of his hand as hoots and applause broke out across various parts of the audience beneath him. Why the fuck was he so tense?

Max was leaning against the bannister of the VIP balcony, wearing a smile that, from where James was sitting, could only be made out by a slight crinkle in the corner of her eye. He looked down at the shiny red wristband she’d given him when she’d all but demanded that he accompany her to the lounge for the show. Discomfort with all of this was an understatement. The black lights made him feel like a fish in a bowl at night, on display and searching for a dark hole in which to hide in. James sat back, pulled his hat further down over his eyes, and hoped that John wouldn’t notice him.

But James noticed John, of course - spotted him by an amp, twisting a knob on his guitar and letting go a few riffs as a final test, much to the pleasure of an eager crowd. He was dressed in all black, save for a grey skully and the white script scrawled on the front of his sleeveless tshirt. James couldn’t read it, but there was certainly something else that was explicitly legible. John’s left arm, exposed for the whole world to see.

Anne’s mic stand dominated the middle of the stage, her hat resting upon it, marking her territory even in her intentional absence. Vane’s monstrous black and gold drum set sat behind it, off to the right but no less imposing.

John walked the length of the stage, over to a piano nestled to the left that James hadn't noticed until just then. He pushed the body of his silver guitar under his arm and around his side, tugging at the leather strap until the instrument was slung up behind him, then sat down on the bench. James felt himself leaning forward, easing his forearms onto his thighs and paying full attention to the curious energy beginning to emanate from the stage. It was an energy that could not be immediately resolved.

“Come here,” Max said over her shoulder, extending her hand without looking. 

His legs moved before he’d officially decided. James stood up, eyes glued to John in some kind of transfixed daze which couldn’t be fought. He didn’t even know the man could play the piano.

But the keys struck beneath John’s fingers regardless, the hammers pounding away at the strings in a somber adagio that made James’ breaths fall from the cage of his chest in waves inexplicably crushing. The man he’d met only once, Vane, beat out a soft rhythm from behind his rig, somehow still managing to make an already intimidating apparatus ten times more foreboding. Strings sung from the speakers, interlacing themselves through the percussion and melody. The lights shrank low. A few more cheers broke out but dissipated just as quickly.

“At John’s behest, they’ve completely redone the introduction to this song,” Max said into James’ ear once he’d joined her at the railing. She curled her arm around his and brought her other hand to rest on his bicep. “The cello is Jack’s addition, but the piano - that is all John.”

It was the last thing James would have ever expected from a punk rock show, and the longer he took in the music, the quicker he realized that this was the last thing he would have ever expected from John as well. John wasn’t - vulnerable. He wasn’t soft. John was a man hardened by the harsh realities of life. He was a man who would stomp another man in the face. He was a man who would willingly revisit the place where he’d nearly died as a testament to his own strength. So this, what was unfolding before James’ eyes now, this didn’t make any sense.

James watched him, finally allowing himself the thoughts he’d been forbidden - to analyze, to decipher, to find a viable path through the labyrinth that was John Silver. That tattoo - a haunting, vibrant confession. James knew how much John hated when people would ask him about it. He’d seen how John would intentionally cover its message to avoid that very interaction. But there it was, on display for all. Ideals etched onto skin. The chink in John’s armor. It bore his essence, his secrets, his fears, his desires, all of them laid bare - the key to him, left out for anyone to see, for anyone to use however they saw fit:  _ I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses. _

An odd feeling crept over James as a gritty reverb snaked its way across the music, snuffing out its warm tones like a strong wind gust to a candlewick flame. And suddenly, Anne walked onto the stage, a blood red guitar hanging across her middle. Her head was down, face covered by hair as was sure to become her signature. She reached for the mic stand and retrieved her hat, the lights flaring up once she did. With one hand wrapping around the neck of her guitar, Anne’s fist dropped like an anvil over the strings - sharp up and down movements, aggressive and sure, sending a violent message through the rumbling amplifiers.

_ “FUCK _ ,” she shouted into the mic - along with the rest of the audience.

John got up from the piano, spinning his guitar back around his torso by its neck, and in that disorienting moment, James realized - a sigh to mark his gross incompetence - he couldn’t see the forest for the fucking trees.

John shredded a riff from his guitar, as if a switch had been flipped. Anne roared into the microphone, and the man who’d just been sitting at that piano evaporated, rematerializing into this version which James felt familiarity with almost instantly. Silver. The myth John had spun and James had been mistaking him for all along.

Except, Silver wasn't a lie. Not entirely. Not while John had that instrument in his possession, his face hidden behind a curtain of curls, bouncing and swaying in an unapologetic expression of his art and his life. James half felt like he'd been fooled by the man, but then there was that other half… 

The crowd wasted no time feeding into the energy, which, James had to admit, was fucking intoxicating. He recognized the song from when he’d first heard them play it, but for some reason, this time around didn’t sound so much like the shrill noises he’d committed to memory. He’d understood what Anne was shouting, he could scarcely tell the difference between the pounding of Vane’s drums and the beating of his own heart. And then, of course, there was Silver’s goddamn guitar, winding in and out of it all like ivy vines through a barbwire fence.

At the drum break, Anne ventured over to Vane’s rig. She stepped onto the small platform and nodded to the tempo they were creating, keeping time and rhythm with her bandmate until the music surged toward the second verse. Vane’s drums worked double-time as Anne left him, jumping triumphantly to her microphone.

James had always wondered how anyone could dare call this type of thing music, but as he looked on, Max at his side, clutching his arm and bobbing her head to the cacophony, a scrawny, tattooed man crawled up from the audience, climbed onto one of the speakers, and threw himself right into the waiting arms of a sea of equally excited people. 

“Oh my Goodness!” Max screamed, pointing at the stage. 

James laughed a bit and shook his head. “This is - insane,” he said back to her, not sure if she’d even heard him.

Anne shot the stage-diver a devilish grin. She let go of her guitar, giving the man a quick middle finger just after the drums and bass cut out completely and all that was left was the grind of Silver’s pulsing guitar strings. She made eye contact with Silver as he walked over to her, coming to stand at the side of her microphone. Anne accommodated him almost instinctively. She stepped around to the other side of the mic. She turned and faced him fully, then began to strum her guitar to the same tune as Silver’s, adding a low, rough layer of rhythm that brought the drums back into the song and built up even more tension.

Then, the entire crowd - or at least what sounded like the entire crowd to James - shouted right along with the trio: 

_ “MISERY!” _

Vane’s drums had yet to boom so powerfully. Anne’s bass had yet to grate so raw. 

She snarled at Silver, wailing into the microphone that the two of them now shared, “ _ Misery fucking loves us…” _

Someone else climbed onto the stage and jumped off as Silver, Vane, and the audience shouted back:

“ _ AND WE, LOVE, HER, TOO!” _

Silver smiled at her and nodded his approval along with the rhythm, their guitars seeming to almost be in competition now, their faces inches apart. They went back and forth like this for a few more measures, and Anne tried to hide a smirk through her long blonde hair as the song came to a close, dropping her head and stroking the final chords out before turning away.

The club thundered with applause. Max pulled her arm from beneath Flint’s to join in with the rest of the crowd.

“Bleeding Christ!” Anne spoke into the mic upon finally returning to it. “You lot are fucking mental!”

The audience belted out their endorsement as Vane stepped on his kick drum a few times and reached over to switch out one of his drumsticks.

“What should we give them next?” Silver asked into his own mic, and his voice was different somehow. Rougher. Something James wasn’t familiar with after all.

Anne looked back at Vane as the crowd shouted out the names of what James assumed were some of  _ The Gallows’  _ songs. 

“ _ Belly of a Shark _ ,” Vane said, his deep voice commanding the crowd’s reaction.

And at that, Anne turned and cradled the mic in her hands, her shrill voice meeting with the guitar and drums just one second later.

“That was my idea,” a man said near the ear opposite Max. James turned to find Calico Jack. “A clever ruse, you see. To make it all seem more-” He gestured toward the stage, searching for the word. “-spontaneous.”

James nodded. “Clever,” he humored him.

“I cannot believe this fucking turn out,” said Jack, staring down at the audience. He leaned against the railing and looked over at Max. “Doesn’t she make you damn proud?”

“What?” Max said back, apparently unable to hear him over the music.

“Proud,” Jack repeated. “Doesn’t Anne make - never mind.” He clapped James on the shoulder. “Listen, I don’t know how you did it, but I’ve come to thank you nonetheless.”

“I’m sorry?”

“For keeping him out of trouble.” 

“I didn’t--”

“I know how challenging the man can be. His antics rival those of a petulant child more often than I truly care to discuss, but - but with that  _ guitar _ in his hands, he is fucking magic. And Anne - Christ, look at her. Anne comes alive beside him.”

Jack cast his eyes down to the stage like a proud parent, but James found his own settling upon Silver instead, studying him as he began playing through a rather complicated looking set of chords. 

“I didn’t keep him out of anything,” James was able to finish saying this time, but it didn’t seem as if Jack was listening any longer.

He looked over to his right at Max who was now standing there with her hand over her mouth, completely mesmerized with the show. James felt promptly alone in that moment, flanked by two people who, while they obviously cared a great deal for John, had let him become eclipsed in a Silver shadow. 

James knew that that was the last thing John needed. He was in an extremely volatile place. He needed all the support he could get, not to be used as a catalyst for someone else. He deserved more than to be a stepping-stone for Max’s sense of pride or Jack’s sense of accomplishment. Perhaps, James was being irrational, but - perhaps he’d allow himself that just this once. Just to be safe. Just to keep  _ John _ safe.

“Here,” said Jack, handing James a flute of what looked like champagne, then doing the same to Max. “Welcome to the crew.”

Their glasses met with a clink against James’ own, which couldn’t be heard but was certainly felt. Max and Jack both drank and continued to watch the show, but all James could do was stand there. He didn’t want to be attributed in any way to Silver’s - no, to  _ John’s _ success, or to take away from any of the hard work the man had been doing on his own. An unreasonable discomfort sunk through him.

The break between the second and third song was virtually nonexistent, shifting the crowd from applause in seconds and launching them into an almost angry frenzy. Many began pushing and shoving and James felt his hair start to stand on end. He’d seen mosh pits before, but they’d only been on television. A news story about how some poor kid had been trampled at a concert. He never actually thought he’d ever witness one in person, let alone the means for its grim beginnings.

By the fourth song the entire left side of the room had morphed into a swirl of bodies, each of them running in circles, tossing themselves into each other, arms flying and legs kicking into flickering darkness. James was certain that a fight would break out soon enough. He kept an eye on security but none of the large men flanking the stage ever moved except to keep the occasional stage diver from knocking over Anne’s mic or tripping over one of the various wires. No one seemed to be at all fazed by the constant unpredictability of their surroundings. Vane was tucked behind the safety of his drumset, Anne Bonny simply bared her teeth and nodded through the chaos, and at one point Silver held his guitar like a rifle, pretending to shoot a stage diver from the ledge of the stage just as the kid lept off of it.

It was surreal - being above it all but somehow still right in the midst of it. The next few songs passed on in a sea of lights and screams and thumping surfaces. It was easily overwhelming, but through it all, James continued to find his anchor. He’d continued to find John within all of the noise, strumming his guitar, seeming to be without any worries or a single care in the world. What was drowning James in anxiety seemed to be the very same thing that was fueling John, and if that wasn’t the dreaded culmination of everything wrong with their entire fucking relationship… 

Would this be John’s life? Could James ever even fit into any of it? This scene which John seemed to have such a passion for - he thrived here while all James did was shiver. Realistically, how could this ever work between them? John was unlaced boots, and cigarettes, and burnt up Union Jacks, and James was… Well, to be honest James didn’t know what the fuck he was anymore. Why was he even thinking about this anyway? John didn’t want anything to do with him. Where the hell did he leave his drink?

James allowed himself one last gaze.  He’d see John Silver on the television some day. He’d look back fondly on what they’d shared. That, of course, was the  _ real _ reason why he’d even bothered to show up there in the first place. He was searching for closure, for resolution of all that could have been. He’d been trying to sort through it since the morning that John had pushed him out of his life. And now, he knew - this place, this life, this man, they were no longer for him.

“Thank you so fucking much,” he’d heard Anne say. “We are  _ The Gallows _ ! Piss off!”

His last two swallows of whisky were more bitter than he’d expected. Using his vantage point on the balcony, James plotted his path through the crowd before setting down his glass and deciding what he was going to say to Max. The entire stage was alight, but the band was no longer on it. Immediately, the audience began to take issue:

_ “ENCORE! ENCORE!” _

Jack swung a hand up to his forehead. “Shit!” The sudden movement surprising James into stillness. “Fuck!  _ Fuck _ !”

“What is it?!” Max called back.

“I didn’t - Christ in bloody hell!” 

He darted toward the staircase in rather dramatic fashion, narrowly missing a cocktail waitress with a serving tray of champagne. 

Max turned back to James in disbelief. “They did not consider a fucking encore?” she asked, a glint of annoyance behind the question. She took in a breath, shaking her head to let it loose. “I must get to Anne. Please, do not leave.”

James watched her go, a burst of his heartrate countered by a deep breath, both competing for space in the depths of his chest. The audience wasn’t moving at all now, intent on clapping and screaming until their demands were met. Bodies swallowed up the gap created by the mosh pit, which meant that James would have to cut a new path through the crowd in order to be able to leave anyway. Great.

He descended the stairs - a few idle glances to make sure he’d slipped out without detection. The crowd on the ground floor was so loud it was deafening. His pulse beat into his ears with each step below, thinking of all the people he’d have to touch in order to make it to the exit now. But he put his head down and started to push through.

Several steps in, several bodies brushing against his, sweat, and noise, and heat, and fabrics all swiping at overly sensitive skin. He should have waited, but how could he? Max would have surely tried to make him speak to John, or worse yet, James might have even run into the man on his way out. No, he had to leave now. He’d made the right decision. He only had to see it through.

The mob surrounding him erupted. 

“ _ You savages want one more?!”  _

James looked up from his haze of t shirts and realized he was directly in the middle of the crowd now, 20 feet or so from the front of the stage. He saw Anne at the microphone. 

“Right,” she obliged them. “For our last trick, we’re gonna do something a lit’l different. This song is called  _ I Dread the Night. _ ”

James tried continuing on through the crowd, pointedly deciding to not even risk a glance in John’s general direction. And that worked, for a moment - right up until the audience swelled with excitement once more. James couldn’t help but peer over for the reason this time. 

Four claps of Vane’s drumsticks and a new song came crashing through the speakers and across the wall of hands which had sprouted up almost instantly. And this time it was John standing at the center mic, one foot on a monitor speaker like he’d been made for it. James saw him, heard him, felt him right then, watched it all pour from this man’s lips and fingers, shook:

 

“ _ I’m lying with my back to the floor _

_ I ain’t never been in so much pain before _

_ If I said I wasn’t scared I’d be a fucking liar _

_ My body’s burning like it’s on fire _

 

_ “Sweating like I ain’t before _

_ First it was a cold now it’s a fever for sure _

_ Forget singing I can barely speak _

_ I think I’m fucking dying  _

_ I CAN’T BREATHE _

 

_ “And I wanna be  _

_ anyone in the world but me _

_ Trapped in the body of a man defeated _

_ I am the shame of mistakes repeated _

 

_ And I wanna be  _

_ anyone in the world but me _

_ Trapped in the body of a man defeated _

_ I am the shame of fucking mistakes repeated…” _

 

James fell numb, his feet heavy, stuck to the ground as he realized what John’s song was truly about. He imagined him lying on the dusty floor of that abandoned building where they’d shared their first kiss. He imagined him feeling like he was on fire, sweating out his fever, being unable to speak, unable to breathe, thinking that he was going to die. And it broke something inside of James that, up until then, he’d thought had actually been on the mend. 

The music calmed and John’s voice came back once more, smoother this time, but shaky with the courage it must have taken to bare these kinds of demons to a room full of complete fucking strangers. 

“ _ There will be no more grey…” _

John pulled off his grey skully as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of the thing, sacrificing his guitar riff so that he could hurl it into the crowd.

“ _ We are finished digging the grave…” _

Genuine anguish rose on his face, his voice cracking as he shut his eyes.

_ “We are the new black…” _

The music hastened, louder, more abrupt. James’ lungs felt inadequate; he squeezed his eyes shut too.

_ “And we’re serious as a heart attack! _ ”

A brief moment of silence. Less than a second. Not even enough to catch a full breath if James could have even managed to chase one. Then, the entire building felt as if it’d been ripped apart, quaking, exploding into splinters and limbs all around him. Anne’s bass boomed over John’s guitar. Vane’s drums hammered somehow both above and below it all. Bodies jumped into the air, spreading out and granting James a berth that forced a chill to thread through his body. He opened his eyes to find a mosh pit forming around him.

He looked up instinctively, wanting to protect John nonetheless. He’d wanted to tell him that he was there; that none of these people had to give a shit about him for him to mean something in this fucked up world. He’d wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to change, didn’t need to be fixed, that these people didn’t deserve the soul that he was skinning live on stage for them now. They didn’t deserve to be able to watch the roses dying beneath John’s cypresses.

But what he got when he looked up instead was a feeling which was altogether different. He got John’s eyes on him, intense and relentless, shock behind them, perhaps even a bit of anger. James couldn’t tell really, not with his own emotions suffocating him now. He felt himself backing away, John splitting scalding looks between him and his guitar. Had James violated him yet again? He knew he shouldn’t have come. He’d told Max. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. None of it.

“ _ And I wanna be…” _

John stared at him.

_ “...anyone in the world but me….”  _

James stared back.

_ “Trapped in the body of a man defeated…” _

John dropped his head.

_ “I am the shame of mistakes repeated.” _

Applause rose higher than at any other point during the night. James looked away then too, not wanting to see the pained expression living on John’s face. He searched for that elusive exit, trying to ignore the ache in his chest and the way his ears rang in protest to it all. He located the main entrance but decided against it as there were far too many people trying to leave that way now. There had to be another one. There had to be. Some way for James to get the fuck out of there as quickly as humanly possible. He turned in place, finding the bar and remembering the emergency exit adjacent to it. And this certainly counted as an emergency, so.

He got his feet moving in that direction, dodging people as best he could. He was an idiot, he thought. He could have ruined their grand finale. On a night this important? Fucking fool. How could he have been so selfish?

The exit was closer now. Just a few more steps and then this smoldering air burning down his throat would be replaced with the cool, crisp night. He’d be able to breathe then. God, how he’d missed the actual air.

Icy fingers squeezed around his own instead. James turned in the direction that his arm was being pulled, feet following only to keep himself from falling. He looked down at the hand then up over that tattooed arm as John weaved them through the crowd and pushed open the door to the washroom.

“Great fucking show, mate,” someone said from the sink. 

“Thanks,” John muttered without looking.

He tried a few stalls but they were all occupied. James felt his face collapsing around his confusion, then John was pulling him into a stall and slamming the door shut. James’ back stiffened and his shoulder shot up toward his ear as John reached around him and threw the latch. 

They stood there for a moment, wordless, John’s chest heaving with the kinds of breaths that James had yet to wrangle for himself. From this close, and now that the guitar was no longer in front of him, James could finally read John’s shirt:  _ Destroy Yourself See Who Gives A Fuck _

John watched him read it, glancing down for a moment as if to remind himself of the words. 

“ _ I _ would,” James said, mindless, and mostly to himself, but, “I’d give a fuck.”

John’s lips parted, just briefly, like he was about to say something but then thought otherwise. His eyebrows tensed as if agony met him at the end of every blink. He lowered his head, brought his thumb and index finger to the outside corners of his eyes, then swept them inward toward the bridge of his nose, pinching there for a moment before, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

James wanted to touch him; to hug him. Should he? Was that even what John would’ve wanted right now? No. James was going to stand there and wait, for - whatever this was. Whatever John wanted to make it. Whatever he needed it to be.

“I don’t know,” James answered.

“Bullshit!” John punched the door beside James’ head, immediately grabbing the top of it to silence the resulting rattle. He looked off to the side, tried to regain his composure. “I told you I didn’t want to see you again.”

“You didn’t mean it,” James said softly, purposefully, and as soon as he’d provoked John’s attention again, he was shifting his gaze from John’s eyes to his lips.

“So, I don’t say what I mean now?” John asked, voice low, hand still resting atop the stall door. He stared into James, a challenge looming behind ice blue eyes. “You know me better than I do,  _ Doctor Flint _ ? Is that it?”

James left his head to fall back against the metal slab behind him. “Not better than you do,” he corrected, finally able to find a deep breath. “But better than you think.”

A negligible scoff pushed through John’s nose then. “You don’t know shit.”

“I don’t?”

“No.” John placed his other hand upon the door, fingers curling over the top of it. His head cocked sideways a bit. “You don’t,” he said stiffly.

James swallowed, weathering the chill of John’s tone and the heat of John’s arms on either side of him. He found himself thinking back to that night on the fire escape when John had enveloped him in a warmth fairly similar. The man had leaned in this close then too, even closer, then even closer still, testing James’ boundaries and asking him every inch of the way exactly how he’d felt about it. This time, however, John only stood there, shrouded in an unintentional allure. He didn’t make any type of advance on James, but he still provoked the same type of reaction. The same kind of exhilaration rolled hot and familiar in James’ belly whether John had meant for it or not.

“So this,” James ran a hand up one of John’s arms toward the wrist, “this isn’t you trying to intimidate me?”

John pulled his arm away from the touch. 

Anxiety. Sure. That was nothing new. John was unpredictable and fully invading his space. Also nothing new. It was yet another test, but it was unlike the former. This one wasn’t a game and neither one of them were asking permission. And the lack of rules made it all the more dangerous, and somehow, all the more arousing.

“This isn’t you feeling out of control--”

“Fuck you.”

“--and trying to exploit my weaknesses in order to regain it?”

John made an attempt to unbolt the door, but James took hold of his wrist.

“Why did you bring me in here?”

“Because I wanted to know just what the fuck you were doing here,” John snapped, “but you've made yourself quite fucking clear.”

“Did I? What am I doing here?”

“Fuck you.”

“What am I doing here, John?”

“Fuck you! You know you’re fucking with my head!”

“Is that what you think?

“That’s what the fuck you get paid for, innit? To fuck about in people’s heads?”

James remembered how he’d last left John, hollow words hanging black in the distance between them. And he couldn’t blame John for thinking it, for feeling betrayed, for being angry at him for removing the mask just to turn right around and walk away from all that had been uncovered. It didn’t matter that John had pushed him away. James knew one thing to be perfectly true: People simply needed their monsters to live outside of the mirror from time to time, and when absolutely necessary, they’d even create their own demons to face off against them.

“I don’t get paid for anything anymore,” James mumbled.

John pushed out a shallow breath. “They fired you,” he concluded. “I guess that’s my fault too.”

James frowned. “I’m not blaming--”

“No. You know what?” John held his hand up between them, mere inches from James’ chest. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am. I’m truly fucking sorry you lost your job. I’m sorry you lost your partner. And I’m sorry you ever had the unfortunate pleasure of wasting your time on me, but--”

“John…”

“--but it’s like that night on the rooftop, yeah? We both know this is a fucking disaster waiting to happen. So, why not just - let’s just cut our losses now before we do anymore fucking damage to each other.”

John went for the lock again, but James blocked him. “Wait.”

“Move.”

“Just - fucking wait a second.”

“Get out of my way, James.”

“I can’t do that.”

The line of John’s jaw grew just as tense as the rigid slope of his shoulder. “Get,” he started, taking a step, “the fuck,” he continued, inching forward still, “out of my way,” he finished calmly, though his nearness and eye contact told an entirely different story. 

James didn’t move, a shivering breath his one and only buffer. His eyes flicked side to side, searching John’s for - something, anything that would suggest John didn’t really mean it this time either. James knew that he shouldn’t have left that morning. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. On this night, he’d stay; he’d stand his ground. And if John wanted to push him away again, the man had better be willing to show him so with more than just chilling words.

The stall door next to them swung shut, shaking the walls around them.

“Make me,” James whispered.

John grabbed a handful of his shirt and pushed James into the door. James grabbed back, two handfuls of fabric for himself, spinning John into the wall beside the toilet. He crashed his mouth into John’s, desperate, hoping the man could somehow taste everything that James didn’t know how to say. Because there was truly no reason for him to still be fighting for this if all that he could offer John now was emotions cloaked in paper thin words. And also, why the fuck was it okay for John to test James’ boundaries but not the other way around?

Two fists came up between them, John’s, pushing stubbornly against James’ chest. James grabbed the wrists of both, lips still pressing into John’s, tongue still searching for his flavor, teeth still latching on for dear life. He pushed back against him, denying him his protest.

“Fuck,” he heard John pant beneath him. 

James wasn’t overpowering him. Not really. John was kissing back, though his body was static, fighting it all literally tooth and nail. James slipped a hand up and around the back of John’s neck. 

“Tell me to stop,” he said into John’s lips. “Tell me you don’t want this and I'll--”

John grabbed at the opening of James’ leather jacket and pulled him closer, though there wasn’t really any space left to subtract between them to begin with. John pulled anyway. Hard. Certain. Telling James the exact opposite of his rueful request. He wrapped his arms around him, gliding his hands up James’ back until he was pulling down on his shoulders, his hips pushing against James’ jeans.

“That’s what I thought,” James exhaled. “That’s really why you pulled me in here, isn’t it?”

Nails found their way to the back of James’ neck in response. “Yeah fucking right,” John sneered into soft stubble. “When have I ever even been able to touch you without you fucking flinching.”

He  _ was _ trembling though, to be sure, but James most certainly  _ wasn’t _ flinching. His skin had actually been drinking up John’s touch as if his body had been without its potion for far too long. And it was under this spell that James decided to say, to challenge, brusquely and defiant, “Well, I’m not fucking flinching  _ now _ .”

At that, John bit his lip, dropped both hands to James’ belt, staring directly into his eyes and seeming quite eager to test the shit out of that theory. His knuckles kneaded into taut stomach muscles and fabric as James refused to give up the room necessary for John to undo the buckle easily.

“Figure it out,” James taunted, the rivets on John’s belt scraping against his zipper.

“Fuck off,” John huffed out. 

His head fell back against the wall as James sucked bruises into the throbbing flesh of his throat. John did as he was told, however, finally managing to slide the hard leather through it’s metal clasp until it was no longer keeping the button of James’ jeans from him. Sandwiched between the wall and insistent lips, breaths coming quicker now, John unhooked the button, tugged down on the zipper, and tucked his hand into the opening he’d been working so hard to achieve. 

It was electric. A jolt of sizzling heat and delicious pressure stretched around James’ cock. John squeezed and rubbed along the snug knit of James’ boxers, and James felt himself growing right there in John’s hands, half surprised that he wasn’t completely hard already.

He surrendered his own hands to the jungle of John’s curls, content with burying hums of approval into his mouth as well. But John wasn’t even really touching him yet. There was still a thin layer dividing their skin, still this God awful fabric, this man-made thing which served no other purpose in that moment than to barricade James from the one thing he wanted most.

“Touch me,” he said, soft and just the wrong side of pleading.

“No,” John shot back.

But he snaked his fingers under James’ waistband anyway, letting them dive down only just far enough to swipe lightly through the hair at the base of James’ cock. Then he was pulling his hand back out again, bringing a guttural whine up from James’ lungs with it.

“I’m sorry, what?” he grinned smugly against James’ lips.

“Please,” James gasped, trying to keep his wits about him. 

And he didn’t quite know when he’d shifted, but right then James felt the stark difference between want and need. John did it again, his fingers plunging deeper this time, sliding over the shaft and almost down to the head. The sensation nearly unbearable, the tight slide of it zipping tingles down James’ entire leg. He fisted John’s hair as the tantalizing withdrawal of John’s hand forced another complaint from his body.

“Say it again."

“Fuck,” James choked out. “John, please.”

“ _ Please _ what?” John licked at the slit between James’ lips before sealing his mouth against his. He ghosted one cluster of fingers over the swell in James’ boxers. “ _ Please _ what?” he tormented.

“Please fucking touch me,” James panted back. “I want to feel you. Your skin, your - fucking hands on me.”

And the kiss John gave at that was lewd and wet. “You want to feel me?” he repeated.

“Yes,” James whimpered. “God, yes.” 

John smoothed his hand down James’ abdomen, slipping into his underwear and grabbing hold of his needy flesh. He stroked him slowly, just slowly enough to tease, yet firmly enough to force James’ eyes to roll shut. 

“Like that?” John breathed into goosebumped flesh. 

James melted into the kisses left on his collarbones, writhed against the pressure gripping around his hardness, and buried his face into John’s shoulder in order to muffle the embarrassingly vocal enjoyment of both. John raked his nails down the middle of James’ stomach, leaving behind pink streaks he seemed content to follow with his tongue. He lowered himself onto the toilet seat, biting warnings into skin as he pulled out James’ dick.

Life echoed in that moment, carrying on with music and conversations and running water as if what was happening in that washroom stall wasn’t ripping all that James knew apart at the seams. Yet somehow, it was still only them. Only quick breaths, hushed tones, and pinched off moans in their own private rectangle of the world. What if somebody heard them? What if somebody saw? When did James stop caring so much about either?

The cool, solid tile pushed back against James’ palm as he leaned one hand against it, unintentionally hunching over and losing himself to the slickness that was John’s tongue. He tried hard not to pull at the back of John’s head once the tip of his dick breached the creamy opening of it, but after the first minute he couldn’t help himself. He needed more of him, more of that luscious mouth, stretched smooth and supple and soaked around his cock.

John quickly developed a bad habit of teasing him. He’d slip off to admire James, to kiss down his length, to lick into the crest of his flushed, shiny dick, and James would watch for as long as he could possibly bear the sight of something so goddamn gorgeous. He’d try to stifle his hunger whenever those adoring eyes were looking up for his approval, but then he’d be splitting John’s lips again, cradling the back of his head as he fucked in and it sucked up all around him. 

“Jesus, fuck,” he couldn’t manage to swallow this time. 

John pushed James’ jeans and boxers down further, dragging his nails along chiseled hip bones and quivering thigh muscles. The buckle of James’ belt clanged against the porcelain toilet as it settled between John’s knees, marking the rhythm they’d built up, and adding to the vulgar symphony of suctions and moans. Then there were hands on James’ ass, coaxing him forward still, scratching up his lower back muscles, squeezing into his waist, all telling him to stop holding back, to stop worrying about whether or not John could take it. John  _ wanted _ to take it. He needed it.

There wasn’t much else James could even consider doing that wasn’t just short of obeying. John curved a hand around the part of James’ dick that was closest to his body. He squeezed, pushing the skin back as his mouth surged forward, then repeated the same but in the opposite direction. The pace was maddeningly slow, allowing for John to swallow him down to a depth that James had never thought possible. And then, John did it again. And again. Stuffing James into his throat and humming around him. Sucking. Pulsing. Licking. Stroking. Bringing James to a precipice he’d surely witnessed before, but had never been so incapable of resisting.

Every second was like getting high. Higher. _Higher -_ having no idea when he’d finally come down. And maybe it was the whisky, or the adrenaline, or the sheer whirlwind it’d been until then, but in that moment, there was no one else in the world that James would’ve rather rode this roller coaster with. This dangerous, erratic, explosive fucking ride that had no seatbelts, no handrails, no footrests. James would hold onto it for dear life. Clutch it like the coils softly snaking his fingers. Clench it like the trembling muscles holding back moans. He’d spend everything he had, spill himself into every available corner of it, if only John would _let_ _him_.

“ _ Joh-- _ ” he tried to say, frantic breaths overpowering all else. “I’m gonna--”

John looked up at him, then closed his eyes...

  
And let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai frands, 
> 
> I listened to quite a lot of music while writing this installment. If you're interested in the songs I've actually cannibalized for this chapter, they are listed here: 
> 
> [Misery](https://youtu.be/KjpXo9Qlw3I): The first song played by "The Gallows", equipped with that awesome piano intro :)
> 
> [Belly of a Shark](https://youtu.be/yBhss2c-iRE)
> 
> [I Dread the Night](https://youtu.be/eKr0zczQoXU): John's epic ode to his almost tragic end.
> 
> Also, the fashion show has not stopped. Can we talk about punk Goddess Anne Bonny please? She's slaying everything in [this](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/de/55/ff/de55ff82387037a0191274144ed6f084.jpg) ( ಠ◡ಠ )
> 
> Max is destroying me in [this](http://www.bellusmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/C1U8947.jpg) ಥ_ಥ
> 
> John's [shirt](https://cdn1.thehunt.com/app/public/system/note_images/723571/note_preview/2afe29e6007269537317bd91c8d11cfa.jpg)
> 
> James' newsboy hat / leather jacket [combo](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/4d/68/e1/4d68e1a0d4c5a747621c97b4ae961e07.jpg). In case you didn't know what a newsboy hat was ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> I am very self indulgent. I am sorry for me.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, thanks for enabling me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Much more story to come so stay tuned. THE SLOW BURN IS FINALLY BURNING. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS. IS. NOT. A. DRILL.
> 
> Love & Rockets ♡


	12. Just What You're Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue awkward morning after scene.

It was nothing so terribly new to feel both physically and mentally exhausted. The one eye John had chosen to open after much internal debate burned immediately with its new atmosphere, most likely due to the damage it’d taken from all of the smoke of the previous night. He really needed to cut down on the cigarettes.

John opened his other eye, squinting a bit at the oppressive morning light and his insubstantially drawn curtains. Oxygen filled his lungs, fresh, smoke-free, and warm. He let a slow, steady stream of air out through his nose before sitting upright to remedy the situation.

It was a good show. That wasn’t the issue. And he wasn’t exactly worried about the photos or video, or the answers he’d given for the magazine interview, or even the web review slated for later that day - would they use the picture with him in the middle or the one with Anne sitting atop Vane’s drumset? Okay, maybe he was a little concerned, but it wasn’t as if he were being self-centered. That song. He was never supposed to perform that damn song.

The fleece blanket slipped away from him as he turned onto his forearm and leaned over the side of the bed. He felt around for the jeans he’d left somewhere between the floor and the bed frame last night, then dug into the pocket and fished out his lighter, the soft slide of covers against the bare skin of his back sending a small chill up his spine. And it was in these moments that John would remember himself - moments when everything smelled of smoke and liquor, when his body shivered and cracked and ached at the slightest provocation, his own pores squeezing out the poison they’d been mercilessly dealt again. He’d bet money that his organs, right along with his leg, had grown quite sick of his shit many moons ago.

John reached for the neatly packed glass pipe resting on his nightstand, put it to his lips and flicked the lighter at the other end, and inhaled anyway.

“What did you think?” he said through an exhale.

His shoulders were tender on account of his terrible guitar playing posture. One day he’d care enough to actually get it right, but today, he’d simply take the pressure off of his elbow, turn over and sit up, resting his back against the mirrored headboard.

“You hated it,” he accused.

James made a face from his pillow that John could not discern in that moment. “Hate is a strong word.”

“It is,” John said, clipped because of the smoke in his lungs again, “but you felt it nonetheless.”

He held the weed out to James as he exhaled, but watched the man’s eyes for any hint of a lie.

“It’s certainly not my speed,” James said, reaching for the pot with that fucking half-smile that always made John want to trade whatever it was they were talking about for something far more physical. “But, no." James rolled onto his back. “I didn’t _hate_ it.”

John squinted. “So what _did_ you do?”

A small puff filled the silence in lieu of a response. And John didn’t want to seem so fucking small right then, so vulnerable, so concerned with anyone’s opinion of his art, but for some reason this one opinion _mattered_. This one opinion meant more than that of any record exec’s, or reporter’s, or fan’s, or fellow artist’s. It made John bite into the flesh just behind his lip, trying hard not to resent James for it.

“Believe it or not, I enjoyed it,” James said.

“Fuck off.” John tried to appear completely dismissive but couldn’t help the small smirk pulling at his lips. He reached over and busied himself with his bottle of Percocet. “Are you talking about the song or the entire show? Because I saw the look on your face during that song and--”

“Both,” James cut in, using the pause created to try and take another quick hit, but John was fairly certain that the pipe had gone out by then. “And what you saw was my reaction to you seeing me, not my reaction to the song.”

John relit it for him and thought for a second while James inhaled, watched for a moment as James tossed an arm over his head and sunk deeper into the pillow. Green eyes peered up at the ceiling, a dark blue pillowcase as their backdrop and dim grey smoke billowing into their line of view. John wanted to mount him right then. Leg be fucking damned.

“So, you _enjoyed_ a song about my near-death experience...” he joked instead, popping a pale yellow pill into his mouth and swallowing it down with a swig of leftover liquor. “Weirdo.”

The amicable twitch of a grin that James had managed then was barely noticeable - far less than John had been going for with the quip. Confusion twinged his brows. “I’m kidding,” he said softly.

James pulled his attention from whatever thoughts seemed to be trapped in the ceiling fan above them. He glanced at John with what he’d probably hoped would be some sort of reassurance. “I know,” he said, passing back the weed.

Okay. Maybe it was a bad joke? Maybe someone had called James a weirdo in the past and it was a word that didn’t sit well with him? John licked the corner of his mouth in thought, logged the theory for later reference.

“How about some coffee?” he asked some seconds later, trying to feel James out.

James kept his attention on the ceiling, and John could almost feel the unbearable distance multiplying with every passing moment, mocking him for his helplessness. “No, thank you.”

By now he’d learned how to tell when James was starting to slip away. He’d seen him get caught before, wrapped in a single thread of unraveling thought, and it was those times when James’ need for physical space would trump the need for emotional support. John studied the forbidden lines of James’ body then, as if they’d somehow spell out the obscure words being confined so deeply within it. The overwhelming weight of dead air needing to be filled with something other than static uncertainty began to play cruel tricks with his pulse. He wondered what to say, what to ask to keep James grounded in the here and now. It was here where their demons would most certainly mingle, and if they played well with each other still remained to be seen.

James’ jaw tensed. His thumb scratched aimlessly at the curve of his index finger. He swallowed. He blinked. He fidgeted. He brought a hand up to his face, rubbing his eyes then pulling downward over his nose and mouth. “I should get going,” he said finally.

What jumped within John once James sat up to make good on those words was indescribable, but it leapt clear over the perplexity of the moment and moved him into overt opposition.

“Should you?” John challenged.

James paused, legs fully over the side of the bed now, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. He turned his head a fraction, just an agonizing inch in John’s direction which allowed for the faintest of tics to be noticed. He spoke over his shoulder. “I should.”

“Just like that?” A breath was harder to come by now, but John managed a shallow, shaky excuse for one. “Am I allowed to say that I don't agree?” he asked unsteadily.

The hinge of James’ jaw pushed against the skin above it. John couldn’t see his eyes but he could just make out the erratic movement of his lashes in the scant profile being granted to him. James was searching for something, the words, the feeling, the strength perhaps, he couldn’t be sure, but it was something that John knew could not be gifted. He was anxious, that much was obvious, but there was something more going on with James, something brimming that was being quite forcibly stuffed down.

Searching the room for the courage to reach deeper into the darkness, John set his pipe back on the nightstand then shifted closer, close enough that he could peek around the slope of James’ shoulder should he lean in and continue to tempt the distance between them. He kept that space sacred, however, no longer keen on exactly where the boundaries now lay. And then a breath, a futile attempt to calm the prickle of his own anxiety.

Careful with his tone, John asked, “Where are you?”

James didn’t respond, not verbally at least, and if it wasn’t for the slight draw of his shoulder away from the wind of John’s words against it, if it hadn’t been for the silence which amplified the shiver of air as it left James’ lungs, John would have thought James had ignored the question completely.

There was so much John wanted to say; to ask. So much that had gone unsaid since last night, since the stall, since the silent ride back to John’s flat and the slow slide of fingers above the center console, since the alcohol laced touches of exploration they’d fallen asleep attempting in John’s bed. James hadn’t asked anything about the cutting, not even when John took off his shirt and wore the scars above his boxers without resignation. And so, John wouldn’t ask anything about James’ touch aversion either, not even now when the push and pull of it all was giving him whiplash.

“I’m sorry,” James said at last, barely audible. “I can’t do this.”

John felt the mattress give way as James’ body rose from it. He grimaced, tried to rework the cogs that were grinding in his head. “Can't do… what?”

James stuck his head through his t-shirt, then one arm, then the other, wordless.

It wasn’t so simple as not wanting him to leave. (Nothing was ever that simple between these two.) The panic swelling in John’s stomach at that point was a complex mix of fear and rejection. This felt deathly close to being abandoned again - and that was probably an overreaction but he was ill equipped to stifle it. Not after what had happened in that washroom stall. Not after what had happened in this very room. John had pushed James away so that he’d never have to feel that vulnerable again, and James had fought, literally and figuratively, against the prospect of this very notion. No. Fuck no. This wasn’t just James leaving physically. John knew that this was James taking all of their progress right along with him too.

His chest clenched around his heart right then, all but ringing the air clear out of him. “Are you f--” John cut himself off, grasping frantically for better judgment but being met with only the uncut horror and outrage of the moment. “I can’t fucking believe you’re doing this again.”

He held his forehead, lamenting his inability to keep his disappointment to himself.

Voice faint, head hanging, James said, “Neither can I.”

John couldn’t lash out, though that was almost all he’d wanted to do. This ran deeper than his infantile fears. He understood that if he acted from that juvenile place he would do far more harm than good - but even this forethought, this self awareness, it couldn’t stop him from feeling somewhat betrayed, and he wasn’t about to let that go lightly.  

His hand dropped into his lap. “You… _forced_ me,” he said. “You _begged_ me.”

James’ eyes fell shut. “I know.”

John stared at him, sure he could pry James’ eyes open with the sheer passion of his glare. “You _swore_ that you weren’t fucking with my head.”

“I know,” James said again, barely able to get wind behind it through the deep breaths he was beginning to take. He opened his eyes, but the overwhelming guilt living there, the silent plea for understanding that would inevitably meet up with John’s quiet rage did little to quell the surge of indignation.

The need to scold him, the desire to comfort him, the fear of losing him, of losing himself, and the longing to understand all of it - John was coming apart at the seams with the battle. And it would have been so easy to rip James apart right then. It would have been cathartic, practical even. Nobody would’ve faulted him for it in the least.

“Why are you doing this?” was what he chose instead.

James stood there, shaking, visibly distraught. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, fuck you!” John yelled, cringing at his own volume. He tried to recalibrate. “You do fucking know. You know! You just don’t want to fucking tell me.”

“It’s not - a matter of wanting,” James deflated, nails pressing into his palms. “I don’t know how.”

“Try.”

“I can’t.”

John moved to the edge of the bed, kicking his good leg over the side. “Try,” he demanded again, looking up at James. “Just put one fucking word behind the other.”

But it was becoming clear that James’ lungs would not allow for any words in any order. He wrapped his arms around himself, an obvious and desperate attempt to keep it all from coming completely undone.

“I’m sorry,” he pushed out.

John shook his head, cut his eyes away, and did his best to stave off the threat of tears. Fuck. He’d pushed him away already. He’d pushed James away but James had pushed back. Why? Why do any of this? Why fight so hard to uncover John, to disarm him so forcefully, to gain his trust with no intention of actually returning it? Why walk through John’s heart with such dirty fucking feet? After everything he’d done to protect himself...

He wanted to sit there and act unimpressed. He wanted to tell James that if he was leaving he was taking far too God damned long to get on with it, but when the man in front of him doubled over, fists clawing into the hems of his boxers, chin pressing into his collarbones, John realized that he had no idea when protecting him had become a full on reflex. When James crumpled to his knees, John found himself sliding off of the bed and meeting him on the floor without even thinking twice.

“I’m,” James panted, “sorry.”

“Stop.” John reached out but thought twice, pulled back just as quickly. He shouldn’t touch him. That’d likely only make things worse. Tilting his head, doing his best to catch those darting eyes, John leaned in. “It’s alright,” he hummed into James’ ear. “Just breathe. In through your nose and out through your mouth, yeah?”

James’ palms flattened against the floor in front of him, shoulders rising and falling in torturous waves. He pressed his lips together, swallowing, coughing, shivering, but followed John’s instructions.

“You’re safe,” John coached, feeling regretful and angry and frustrated all at once. “You’re safe, d’you hear? You’re safe.”

He felt James’ hand on his knee then, surprising in its warmth yet slight and unsure. John returned a touch against the fabric of James’ shirt, sending an ache of apprehension high into his throat. His hand trembled along with every one of those laborious breaths beneath it.

This was unsustainable.

It was one thing to watch James break down, to feel the thick resentment being harbored against him breaking down right along with him, but not being able to touch him was a silent torture that John had been enduring for far too long. To go back to this - this worry, this fear that the physicality which he thrived upon was still nothing more than a liability - this felt violent, volatile, breakable in all the ways that John was no longer willing to negotiate.

If James wanted to leave, John wasn’t going to stop him. And he wasn’t going to force him to talk to him either. He’d done nothing at all to warrant James’ distrust and he was tired of paying for what certainly felt like everyone else’s mistakes. How could he hold onto a man with one foot out of the door anyway? How could he _lose_ so much of himself so quickly, and to someone who was so unwilling to give even half of what he’d been offering up in advance?

John pulled his hand away.

“‘fray--,” James whispered, his breathing slowing almost imperceptibly.

“What?”

James squeezed John’s knee. “‘m afraid,” he managed this time.

“You’re afraid?” John repeated, dipping his head lower to try to find James’ eyes again. His fingers itched with the overwhelming desire to lift James’ chin in order to see them. “What are you afraid of, love?”

He could feel nails sinking into the skin just above his knee now. Then, their eyes met, finally, the glossy haze of shame in James’ stare knifing all the words that had failed him straight into John’s fragile heart.

“Me?” John questioned, but he already knew the answer.

And all at once, the simple act of looking at James became just as painful as not being able to touch him. John dropped his gaze to the floor beside them, something sour twisting in his gut. He bit back the tears that had been battling to break free since this whole thing had started. Was he truly that ugly of a person? He had untamed demons, to be sure, but he thought he’d been doing pretty damn well at keeping them on a short leash. John tried stuffing down the rapidly growing lump in his throat to no avail.

“What I feel for you…” James finally spoke up, but John only found his eyes in reluctance now. “What you _make_ me feel…” He gulped down a rather large breath. “I have no fucking idea how to control it.”

John blinked through a cringe. “Why do you need to?” he asked.

“Because I--” James stopped himself, his breathing almost at normal pace now, save for the obvious tremors which still taunted every inhale. He looked away for a moment, grappling for the words. “It’s who I am.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s who I need to be.”

“Really?” John dug, lowering his tone. “What makes you so special? What makes you so above being human?”

James shut his eyes, sighing into a frown. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I’m _trying_ ,” James reminded.

“I--” John nodded, reining himself in. “I know... I know, I’m sorry. I’m just - I want to understand.” He placed his hand atop the one James was resting on his knee. “You’re doing great...”

James eyes flicked over to the gesture, prompting John to flinch through the initial instinct to pull his hand away. He left it where it was, though, pressing a calm decisiveness into trembling skin, and it only took James a few seconds to shut his eyes once more, let out a small sigh, and accept it.

He moved his thumb to hook over John’s. “What happened last night,” he began, “I need to apologize--”

“You don’t--”

“I couldn’t control myself and I--”

“--have to apologize.”

“--I’m fucking _ashamed_ , John!” James hammered out. “I’m - disgusted with myself… that I - that _you_ … that I could let you could bring that out of me. It fucking terrifies me.” His eyes were desperate then, like a cornered animal with an injured limb. “I shouldn’t have even been there to begin with. I’m sorry - to have roped you back into this bloody mess that--”

“For Christ’s sake, shut the fuck up,” John jumped in. “Do you think you’re the only one who’s afraid here? Do you think you’re the only fucking one capable of ruining another human being?” He took an uneven breath, feeling his free hand ball into a fist. “I fucking _destroyed_ Madi. She gave me everything besides the blood in her own goddamn veins and I ruined her!”

The flustered expression on James’ face melted into scrutiny from one sentence to the next. And although John hadn’t meant to speak over him, didn’t mean to make this about himself, the manner of James’ self-flagellation was something that John had known all too well. The sting of it struck a chord within him which could not be so easily silenced.

“Why the fuck do you think I pushed you away that morning?” John continued. “Why do you think I was so angry to see you last night? You didn’t _rope_ me back into anything, James. I’ve never let go of the fucking tether.”

He pulled his hand from James’ and wiped his eyes, feeling irrevocably exposed in that moment. The weight of James’ hand sunk into his knee. The sound of his quick, shallow breaths kept him grounded, though all John wanted to do in that moment was sink into the floor. “I consume people. That’s who _I_ am. That’s who _I_ need to be,” he said. “That’s the reason I don’t believe in monogamy, the reason I run from emotional attachments, and… it’s the reason I don’t know how to let anyone get any closer than you are right now.”

He looked up at James then, making sure that their eyes were locked in, reading the doubt, the pain, the fear sitting across from him and deciding to say, “What happened in that stall, it wasn’t you _losing_ control. It was you asking for what you wanted and being heard... and being accepted without judgment. It was you _taking_ control. And there isn’t any goddamn reason for you to be ashamed of that. _Choosing_ to be vulnerable… To me, that is the highest form of courage. And I have to believe that it wasn’t I who manipulated you into any of it.”

“It…” James shook his head. “You didn’t.”

“I have to believe that you chose it--”

“I did.”

“--and that I didn’t cross yet another one of those fucking lines that I always seem to be unable to see.”

A short breath tumbled from James’ mouth, falling to the ground along with his attention. John allowed for the silence to rule here, for it to fill the space between them in communion and fruition. He needed James to understand this before he could move forward. He wasn’t really sure why.

“I don’t…” James pulled his hand from the cold tile floor, grabbing his own throat as if words were now daggers. “I wanted it,” he admitted. “I wanted you. I still do, but I don’t… I don’t know if I can handle all that’s tied to it. The reality of it - being dismantled by another person and trusting that they can put you back together again.”

“Then you were right not to trust me,” John said without thinking, placing a look of grim realization upon James’ face. “I can't put you back together. I don't have the tools. And you were broken long before I - James, look at me.”

James lifted his head, his guarded gaze flicking back and forth between John’s watchful eyes. “I may not fully understand what you’re going through,” said John. “I don’t know the blackness of the rivers from which your demons have risen, I don’t know their shapes or colors, or the screech of their whispers in your ear, but - believe me when I fucking tell you - I hear their echoes clearly, love. I feel them as they resonate, and, to be perfectly honest,” --John halfway chuckled here, because once again he had no real idea where any of these words were coming from, but their foreignity hadn’t made them any less tragic or true-- “there’s a good chance that they are the only fucking things we have in common with each other.”

At that, James let out a breath of humor all his own. A slight curl nudged at his lip, his stare softening under the sentiment. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it's true?” John posed.

“But it isn't. And that bit about consuming people… that's not who you are either.”

“Oh, really? Well, you’re not this control freak who can’t bear to allow what’s growing between us to unfold organically without analyzing every aspect of it with _infuriatingly_ annoying voracity, innit?” John failed to hold back his smirk. “Yet here we are…”

James’ lips parted slightly, purposeful blinks belaying his eye contact. “You may be onto something,” he said, a teasing edge to a somber tone.

John raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement and maybe even a small sense of hubris. “I have my moments,” he replied.

His heart was beating loudly in his ears, not quickly but he could still feel it beneath his sternum anyway, the pulse of it making itself known right along with the fondness pouring from James’ stare now. This silence carried with it a different weight. There was a quiet pull, a gravity to it that forced John to fill his lungs with resignation in order to keep it all right side up.

“You have a lot of those,” James said softly.

“What?” John came back, lost in his own thoughts. He could handle the darkness of the man sitting so unbearably close to him now. He’d see his darkness and raise him some bloodthirsty demons of his own. What he could never handle, however, was that look - that soft regard that sometimes carved its way through James’ intense features, leaving John fighting his baser impulses amidst that which felt deathly close to resembling an invitation to the opposite.

“Moments,” James explained.

John’s gaze fell to his lips. “Oh, um,” he stammered, looking away, “yeah, I - I’ve heard.” He shrugged then, a fruitless attempt at brushing off the endearment attached to the statement more so than the actual compliment. “Just one of my many charms, it seems.”

Finally, the grin that’d been playing at James’ lips managed to pull through, crinkling the gentle creases in the corner of his eye. And that was far too much for John. Those freckles. That hair. Those flecks of soft blue in those sea green eyes and the way those lines around that mouth shifted, one deepening, the other almost disappearing completely - that smile favoring one side considerably more than the other. James was much too close for things of that sort to be hanging so heavily between them.

“Christ, I need a fucking cigarette,” John huffed, elbowing himself up onto the mattress behind him.

He stretched across the bed, grabbing his pack and the lighter from his nightstand, but when he made to return to his spot beside James on the floor, his path was blocked by those freckles, and that hair, and that creamy skin pulled taut and warm over swells of lean muscle. John sat up near the edge of the bed, staring up at James for only a moment, reading the conflict there, the surrender, the anxiety - still this fear, always this fucking fear - and then his hand was reaching out and taking a fistful of James’ shirt for himself.

He lifted slowly, reverently, eyes locked onto James the entire time as if asking for permission and likewise challenging the very concept. This was what James wanted, wasn’t it? Every hitch of breath and tiny jump of muscle was telling John so. This was why he was standing in front of John now, looking down at him, hands moving restlessly at his own sides. This was what James wanted, even if the words had seemed too thick to roll off of his tongue right then.

When had this silent understanding blossomed between them? John had always been an intuitive person, always able to read the nuances of every interaction happening in a crowded room, the energy, the body language, the thoughts behind the blank stares and the seemingly empty eyes, but never to this level of commiseration. Reading a person or a room was simply a survival instinct. It was a cruel remnant of a life where John hadn’t known the meaning of safety. He’d never used the skill in this way before, to protect the sensibilities of another. But there, that moment, John was lifting that shirt anyway, because somehow he knew that that was exactly what James was asking him to do, and James shivered as the limp kiss he'd been waiting for pressed graciously into his stomach.

John peered up to find that James’ eyes were closed, so he lifted the other side of his shirt and pressed his lips to the flesh that was waiting there, too. He felt James’ muscles tighten but he continued to kiss, up a trail of fine hair until those arms were flanking him, and those hands were pressing down into the bed on either side of his hips.

James leaned in. “I think,” he said, his face level with John’s now, “there are far worse things to be consumed by.”

He pressed his lips against John’s then, sending the man back onto his elbows in a fit of twisted heat and searing need. And John knew that that was just James pushing past a personal demon again, trying to prove to himself that he _could_ , but fuck - John was just a man. He was only human. So he pulled James toward him by his shirt, letting the violent tremors of truths become his personal torment, too.

Complying with the gesture, James allowed himself to be reigned in, and the kiss which followed lent itself to an entirely different feeling. James climbed onto the bed and straddled John’s lap. John pushed back against his steady weight, making fists in the sheets where he couldn’t make contact with the skin he’d so desperately longed for. He wanted to touch James again, to hear him beg for it as he did in that washroom stall, but in order to have that he’d have to deny them both this.

They kissed instead, sluggish and deep, with James exploring John’s mouth in a way that made John think the taste was amongst the man’s favorites. He felt a hand swoop into his hair, beckoning him closer, but he pushed his nails sharply into his own palms in order to keep from mistaking it as an invitation to more.

Any other time, John would have been in complete control. He was always the one to seduce, to provoke, but in James he’d found his proper match. There was no amount of intrigue or charm that was going to hurry this delicate process along. And that rightfully would have stifled the thrill of the chase for anybody else - but James Flint, of course, was not anybody else. James Flint was the only person that could make John’s dick twitch just from eye contact alone.

“I still can’t believe I got to taste you,” John whispered into him.

James spoke through clusters of kisses, looming almost fully over John now. “Did you like how I tasted?” he whispered back.

“Fuck,” John sighed, his lungs feeling tight. “I didn’t know I was starving until I tasted y--”

The end of the word drowned in the undertow of James’ lips - and maybe, just maybe... Soft fingertips skimmed along the line of John’s shoulder, sending the hairs on his arm to stand on end. Gravity teased at the distance between John’s back and the bed. The stifling air pressed heavy into his chest. His elbows burned against his cheap mattress springs, his stomach muscles fought to keep his body halfway upright, but before he knew it he was falling back onto the bed, his chest and stomach were sealing themselves with the perfect warmth of James’ body, and his hands were underneath James’ shirt, one of them scratching gently down the valley of his back.

Breaths above him stuttered, halted, gasped, and John knew it was too much. It had to be. Too much too fast and too damn good to be able to stop so quickly. God, what the fuck was this thing that James brought to life within him? Why was this forbidden flavor of flesh so deliriously delicious?

John pulled his hands away and put them up by his head as if a gun were being pointed at him. “I’m sorry,” he huffed. James straightened one arm in order to create immediate space between them. Patience. Right. Patience. Agonizing fucking patience. “I’m sorry, I - slipped.”

James held his eyes shut for a moment, in near silence, and John studied him then - all flustered and freckled and vulnerable beneath the weight of it all. He wanted to comfort him. He wanted the words in place of the actions this time. But he only succeeded in berating himself for the momentary lapse in judgment.

He could apologize again, for whatever that was worth, although...

“Slip again,” James said softly.

It was the last thing he'd expected to hear, and John was instantly relieved that James had kept his eyes closed, missing the look of confusion tightening across his face. A small hesitation, a breath, a blink, then John was slipping both hands beneath James’ shirt, sliding over supple skin and leaving small shivers in his wake. And then it was James’ hands that were stinging, scorching into the sides of John’s face, pulling passion from him that was frighteningly feral and far too fucking close to overwhelming.

Intoxicated, John positioned his hips just right between James’ legs, anxiety still running deep into the crevices of every torturous meeting of skin. Was this okay? Was it - too much? James’ cock was solid against John’s but - would James tell him if he needed him to stop?

John couldn’t fuck this up. He should stop. He should just…

“Take off your shirt,” he said, half ashamed of the desperation in his voice and the rawness of his quiet demand.

He bit into James’ jaw, sliding his hands up to hook over James’ shoulders and almost removing the offending shirt on his own. He pulled down as he grinded up and against the smooth fabrics that still kept them separate. A small whine. John felt the vibration of it against his throat as James panted and mouthed at his pulse, but what did the sound mean? James hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t asked John to stop. He hadn’t told John to keep going. His flesh was flushed pink across his neck, his eyes were closed, his breaths were falling in whimpers across John’s shoulder.

“Are you alright?” John managed to breathe somewhere in the vicinity of James’ ear.

When James didn’t answer, John spoke his name. When that too went unanswered, John fell silent, his hands beginning a retreat from their ill-fated bliss upon the startling realization that James was crying.

“Don’t,” James pled.

And so John didn’t.

“Keep going…”

John let out a helpless gasp, wrapping his arms tightly around James’ back and feeling like a goddamn fool for getting this lost in his own desires, so lost that he could no longer tell right from wrong, so lost that he could no longer trust himself, could no longer protect James, could no longer think with the proper fucking head. James kissed him, deep and affirming, his face slick with the tears of his own surrender, and John risked everything then. He simply could not suffer anything else. He risked losing it all to not be deprived of James’ body for even a second longer.

Lifting his shoulders off of the bed, pushing against James’ weight, John dug his elbow and his foot into the mattress. He lifted his hips next, easing James onto his side and then following him, enduring the momentary ache of separate lips until James was lying on his back and John was shifting on top of him, long wild hair falling carelessly into both of their faces.

There were hands in those curls almost immediately; a tongue in John’s mouth and a hard heat straining against the bone of his hip. A pad of skin pushed against the back of John’s knee - James’ foot - then a thigh was easing up into the side of John’s body. Jesus. Was this really happening? Could they really…? He didn’t waste another moment wondering. John smoothed his hand along the outside of James’ thigh, curled his fingers just under James’ knee, lifting it up until James’ leg was fully wrapped around him. James wasted no time either, bringing his other leg up behind John to meet the first and locking his ankles in place.

It was actions now - tangled in James’ limbs this way. Just actions in place of words. Just John listening to every breath, feeling every twitch, yearning for every syllable of James’ body that was trapped in this new conversation. He grinded into him, once, twice, and the perfect mixture of a whine and a moan mingled with those breathless vowels between them, setting any semblance of coherent thought left in John’s head completely ablaze. James wanted this. He wanted it just as badly as John did. There was no other explanation.

Christ.

He could have him.

He. Could. Have. Him.

John shuddered as James dug his nails into the back of his neck, feeling a second hand snake its way into the friction. It pushed into John’s boxers, palm up, the drag of it curling around John’s dick and squeezing, provoking him to thrust harder.

And he’d thought it’d be James who would fall apart first. He knew he’d have to break him down, bit by bit, patiently helping him get over his aversion, slowly building trust and understanding, quietly longing for the simplest slide of skin, the smallest physicality to get him through. John was ready for it. He’d decided in that stall that he would endure it for as long as possible if it meant that he’d feel this kind of spark again. But he hadn’t accounted for this - not James surrendering himself so beautifully, clutching John so surely, body trembling, breaths pulsing right along with cocks. No, he hadn’t accounted for any of this. So when he found himself coming in James’ hand, nose buried in the crook of his neck, teeth bared against his lover’s reddened flesh, John hadn’t even realized it was happening until it was close to being over.

The sound he gave up then was embarrassing. John bit his lip trying to muffle the last of it, holding his breath and turning it into a grunt to mask the ecstasy. He spilled into the skin surrounding him, soaking into cotton and the slickness of James’ hand with a few more vindictive twitches.

Which heartbeat was his and which belonged to the man responsible for rendering him immobile was certainly a matter of opinion. John lay there, chest to chest with James, taking in the scent of his hair and panting into his neck. He should get up, ask James if he’s okay. He should-

“You're not circumcised,” James said, an edge to his tone that made John think the man may have been grinning but he couldn’t be sure.

He felt what he could feel of his face twist in disorientation. “No,” he replied, pulling away from James’ neck and burying his cheek into the pillow. “Is that - a bad thing?”

James turned his head toward him, and John pulled back just a bit more in order to look him in the eye. “No.” The hand James didn’t still have nuzzled between them moved the hair out of John’s face. “I like it.”

John let his eyes fall closed and his lungs fall empty as James’ hand came to rest against the side of his neck, thumb gliding along his jaw, his chin, then downward over his Adam’s apple. “Really?” John asked halfheartedly, eyes still shut. “Most people hate it.”

The ribcage doubling as John’s current casket sunk quickly beneath him, a breath falling out from across the pillow that John took as a laugh, albeit a small one. “I doubt that.”

“No, seriously.” John opened his eyes again to find James’ were waiting for him. “I’ve been told it’s odd my entire life.”

A squeeze and a gentle caress of John’s cock caused his back to curve and forced a smile from his lips. “It doesn’t feel odd to me,” James countered.

“Perhaps,” John recovered, “but you haven’t exactly even seen it yet. So you can’t really say that you like it.”

James pulled his hand from John’s boxers, and if there was any evidence of their exploits below still lingering on it, he did a good job of wiping it on his own underwear without much of a fuss. He immediately began to tug at John’s waistband.

“Wait!” John rolled off of him and onto his own back, hand over his cock. “It’s not even hard now. It’s not even at half of it’s fullest potential!”

James turned toward him in pursuit. “I’m sure we can change that,” he said.

And then that fucking smirk, that god damned half-smile that made John’s dick jerk in his own palm. Fuck. His boxers were already soaked. What the fuck was James trying to do to him?

“Where the fuck have you been all this time?” John asked in the breaths between the kisses which followed.

James paused, lingering a few inches from John’s lips as if he were actually considering an answer to the rhetorical question.

“I’m sorry,” said John. “I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine.”

“I wasn’t trying to say - I was only--”

A kiss. Shut up, John. Just, shut up. Sometimes, it’s perfectly fine to just shut the fuck up.

James inched closer to John’s side, one arm pressed between his own body and the bed, and his other arm hooked around John. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“You don’t have to,” John said immediately. “You’ve already tried - and I’m sorry that I--”

“I know I don’t _have to_.” James’ cheek jumped slightly and his eyes fell away from John’s. “But - I think you deserve an explanation.”

 _Deserve_? John didn’t deserve a god damned thing if he were ever the one left to tell the story. And watching James agonize over the words for his own tragedy was something that he refused to be a party to again.

“Stop.” John rolled off of his back, turning toward James and finding his eyes again. “I don’t want to know.”

“Yes you do,” James reminded, his voice barely above a whisper.

John balked, blinking away because it was true but then looking back to James because it didn’t matter. “I don’t _need_ to know,” he corrected. “Not right now. Whatever it is - whatever it _was_ , it’s yours to keep or to share. I have no claim to any of it.”

He watched as his words sunk in, or at least he’d hoped they had, then he was reading the relief floating behind the sea of green across from him. James ran his hand along the outside of John’s arm, all the way down to the fist which John hadn’t yet realized he’d been making - not until James was pushing his fingertips between John’s knuckles and forcing his hand to relax.

“Thank you,” James said, half under his breath, “for… not pushing me.”

John spread his fingers and allowed James’ own to hook through the spaces between them. “I won’t. I know what that’s like.”

At that, James looked away again, down toward their lightly clasped hands - no, down toward John’s hip, toward his visible scars, the heat of his gaze making John uncomfortably certain of where it was landing. Then, James was running a thumb along one of such painful reminders. John shut his eyes and sighed.

“Yeah,” James said to him, “I imagine that you do.”

There was an apology in there somewhere, buried deep in that unbearable softness. An apology for how James had grabbed John’s wrist that morning after the arrest, for how he’d fought against him, for how he’d lifted John’s shirt without permission, exposing him in a way that should have been unforgivable. It was an apology for abandoning him, and it was anchored deep in the waters of James’ fixed stare now. But John wouldn’t have even allowed for its completion had it actually been verbalized. James didn’t need to say it. It had already been unequivocally accepted.

He moved a hand along James’ wrist then, keeping the man’s hand pressed against his scars, choosing to stay with the vulnerable feeling that was swelling inside of him. He hadn’t cut in a few days, but John’s freshest wound was still a bit tender to the touch. Part of him wanted to run from it, to avoid it at all cost, but there was this darker part, this secret part, a part that caused the slight twinge of pain which accompanied James’ touch to mix with the absolute pleasure of James’ skin smoothing against his own, sending John into a spiral of arousal that must have been quite noticeable after all, because James had his other hand back in John’s boxers before John had even realized his dick was hard again.

He felt the kiss before he knew it was coming, the soft bristles of James’ growing mustache turning knots in his stomach and need in his skin. He loved it when the man hadn’t shaved in awhile. In some weird way that John would probably never admit to another living soul, when that wiry part of James brushed against his lips, his cheeks, his chin, his anywhere, it just felt as if there was even more of James in existence for John to find pleasure in.

These kisses were different though, gentle and indulgent. And they didn’t last as long as John had wanted. They didn’t build into everything they’d managed before. These were simply the kisses one gave to another when they knew that mere words would fall short. There were apologies there too, and promises, and understandings, and even a simple ‘thank you’.

John curved a hand against the back of James’ head, and James settled into the touch. His own hand was still in John’s underwear, but it was more warmth than actual friction.

“What?” John asked, trying to analyze James’ silent attention.

“I just never thought I'd feel this way again.”

A torrid heat crawled into John's chest, seeking to separate itself completely from the chill dripping into his stomach. “And what way is that?” he managed to get out just before his throat went tight.

“Alive…” James said shakily. “I never thought I'd be - attracted to someone so strongly again. Especially not a person with demons just as dark as my own.”

John smiled. “It’s the hair.”

James chuckled. “The hair might have something to do with it, yes.” He pulled his hand from John’s hip and buried it in the offending curls. “But I’d wager there’s a lot more to it than that.”

“You would?”

A nod was James’ answer. And John knew what it meant, the implications of it, the undeniable connection that was being forged between them, but as with all things, a little humor to tone down the intensity never hurt anyone.

“Well, in that case,” said John, “I should probably make myself absolutely clear about something, just so that it doesn’t get buried under the weight and importance of everything else.”

“Alright.”

John smirked, small, slight, sure that the look in his eyes would not fail to convey the feeling of mischief blooming within. “I’d _still_ very much like to fuck you,” he said.

Unblinking, James mirrored John’s candor. “What exactly makes you think,” he asked, slowly closing a hand in John’s ridiculous hair, “that _you’d_ be the one doing the fucking?”

 

**oo**

 

He doesn’t knock. He never knocks. He has a key to the place (just as Jack possesses one to John’s), but he never has to use it because the door is always unlocked for some reason. One would think, for all Jack’s incessant and almost excruciating analysis of people, he’d keep the bloody door to his home bolted, but here John was, pushing the door open as he’d already done a million times before.

“--cannot, for the life of me, understand what would possess you to want to cut it,” he heard as he shut the door behind himself. He followed Jack’s voice into the living room. “It’s one of your staples. It’d be the equivalent of losing your muscles, or your voice for Christ’s sake. Do you even understand the - ah, John! Can you please explain to this man the full extent of this power which he wields so ungratefully?!”

John tried his best to temper the humor he always found in Jack’s overt disapproval of something. “Does he want to cut his hair again?” he asked.

To which Charles simply said, “It itches.”

“It _itches_ ,” Jack echoed, contempt clawing at his tone. “You’d alter your image at this, one of the most, if not _the most_ crucial point in time for the fate of this band, effectively disappointing a significantly large portion of your female fan base, simply because _it itches_.”

Charles grinned, but just barely. “They’ll get over it soon enough,” he countered, turning and pointing the business end of a joint at John. “They’ll still have the curly one.”

John laughed to himself and shook his head, declining Charles’ offer to partake. He searched the corners of the room as he sat in the single chair adjacent to the larger couch which the other two occupied. “Where’s Anne?” he asked.

Charles shrugged and continued smoking a spliff which made the room smell curiously like grapes.

“She’s on her way,” Jack answered, dropping a hand onto Charles’ shin.

Denim, booted appendages were sprawled quite uncaringly across Jack’s lap, making him seem much smaller than he actually was, but if he’d minded at all he had never let on. Perhaps he was used to it, having been with Charles for so long. Charles Vane did have that way about him, even dwarfing men far larger than he with his strong, silent confidence. Jack leaned his head back onto the spine of the couch, eyes darting around after his thoughts, and Charles slouched into the arm of the couch, blowing smoke circles into the air between them. They were an odd pair, to be sure, but somehow it still filled John with something close to warmth to see them making a go of it anyway.

“Has the web review been published yet?” John asked.

Jack checked his watch. “Not yet,” he said. “But I did receive an email of it.”

“And?”

“And…” Jack drummed his fingers against Charles’ knee, tearing a doleful eye away from his hair in order to properly address John. “I’ll read it when Anne gets here.”

Not realizing he’d begun to lean forward in his seat, John sat himself back with a sigh. He didn’t mean to seem so eager, so nervous, but the anticipation was making something cartwheel in his chest which could not be so easily tamed. He put a hand over his mouth, cradling his chin with his thumb and searching rather desperately for the patience which had always seemed to live and breathe just out of reach.

Silence filled the room, thick and oppressive, and John found himself scratching at the canvas arm of his seat just to hear the soft sound that it made. What if they’d hated it? No. There was no way that Jack could be so composed if the review had been a bad one. It was good. It was good. John had given it everything he’d had. He’d left it all on that bloody stage, and whoever hadn’t realized the magic that they’d been privileged enough to witness that night simply did not deserve to hear another lick of his fucking guitar strings.

“There _is_ something I need to discuss with you, however,” Jack said, “before Anne gets here.”

John felt his ears perk at that. “Okay?”

“I’ve become privy to a bit of information that - changes our circumstances.” He glanced at Charles, whose eagle-like squint was now wholly and completely trained on him. “I have it on good authority that an offer is on the horizon.”

The cartwheels in John’s chest leapt into full-on somersaults, but there was something in Jack’s tone, something resting in his demeanor and his resistance to continue which kept the nervous energy within John from swelling into the outright elation it was angling toward.

“Spit it out, Jack,” Charles said smoothly.

Jack nodded, apprehensive. “Right,” he said. “Well, ah - it’s quite simple, really. The stipulations of this deal are clear.” -Here, he swallowed, almost as if he were trying to bite back the sting of what followed- “They… they want _you_ to be the lead singer.”

John’s flesh rose hot with tingles of exhilaration and a bitter cocktail of disgust and disbelief. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

The hand Jack was resting in the bunches of Charles’ jeans clenched almost imperceptibly. He licked his lips. “It was the song.”

“The song,” John repeated. “The song that I fucking told you I _did not want to perform_ ? _That_ song?”

Charles angled his head to be able to catch John’s eyes, but said nothing.

“I understand that the situation is not ideal, but--”

“Not ideal?” John sat forward. “Jack, this is out of the fucking question.”

And any other time the sentiment would have felt foreign. Afterall, it wasn’t as if they were ousting Anne from the group. She would still be a member. She would still sing. It’s just that John would be the frontman, and honestly, nobody could argue that he wasn't built for the role. But John couldn’t think like that. He wouldn’t. That’s not who he was anymore.

“Quite,” Jack agreed. “And I certainly share your passion, believe me. Nobody wants to see Anne disregarded in the matter.” He lifted Charles’ legs from his lap and made to stand. “However--”

“Stop!” John held out his hand as if the physical act could somehow block Jack’s appeal. “Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

“Look, I--”

“And you’re on board with this?” John asked, aiming for Charles.

“I don’t give a shit who sings,” he answered calmly, exhaling a stream of smoke. “So long as I get paid.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was _Anne_ . The same Anne that, just months before, Jack was ready to cast John aside for. The same Anne who’d switched instruments just because she knew how vital having John on lead guitar was. The same fucking Anne who threw her voice out almost every weekend, who commanded that crowd with sheer terror and grace, who showed John what real fucking bravery looked like whenever she stepped out onto that stage. John didn’t know how to be so dedicated to something, to stick with it through thick and thin, to work at it day in and day out despite crippling anxiety and self-doubt. Anne showed him that. Anne gave everything she had, everything she was to _The Gallows_. How could Jack even consider this?

“So it’s the money,” John concluded. “It’s always the fucking money.”

“It’s more than the money,” said Jack. “It’s our future. It’s Anne’s future. And Charles’. And yours, John.”

“And yours. Right, Jack?” John stood, smoothing down his tone like a lion in the brush awaiting the perfect moment to strike. “That’s what this is all about, innit? Your _name_ . Your _legacy_.”

Jack bit into his bottom lip. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is wanting to replace me… _or_ Anne. Neither is _you_ thinking that you can just - shuffle us around whenever and however you see fit.”

“I told you those things in confidence, not so you could throw them in my face during one of your juvenile fits.”

“Alright,” Charles droned, half interested. “Everybody’s got a big cock. Sit down.” He held the joint out to Jack, but looked over at John. “Both of you.”

Jack was the first to give up ground, stepping beside Charles and reaching for the weed.

“There’ll be other deals,” John said, finding his seat again.

“I’m afraid--”

“There’ll be other fucking deals, Jack.” John made sure to look him straight in the eye right then. “There’ll be other fucking deals or there’ll be another fucking guitarist.”

The exact point at which John had found the courage to use himself as collateral for the sister he’d never had would remain a mystery to everyone in the room, including John himself. Was he truly prepared to walk away from the only thing that had kept him going? His moral compass had never pointed so fully north before.

Jack’s shoulders stiffened with the sound of the front door, but John’s eyes stayed trained on him, hoping he could somehow communicate through a scowl just how quickly Jack had better abandon this idea altogether if he knew what was good for him. It was settled, as far as John was concerned. There would be other deals; better ones. And there was absolutely no reason to poke at the already tender parts with such a ridiculously short sighted conversation. To shake Anne’s confidence now - John wondered if Jack even knew the woman at all.

Anne dragged the heels of her boots into the living room, red hair falling in lapping flames over her tattooed shoulders. She looked at John first, then Jack, then Charles, then finally back at Jack. “Fuck’s your problem?”

A self deprecating smile wormed its way across Jack’s lips. “Darling...”

“Shit,” she huffed, ducking her head under the strap of her bag and tossing it onto the couch beside Charles. She crossed her arms. “Is it bad?” Jack met John’s eyes just over her shoulder, prompting Anne to turn and follow them. “Fuck. S’bad ain’t it.”

“He hasn’t read it yet,” said John. “We were waiting for you.”

With a nod, Anne sat herself on the opposite arm of the couch from where Charles was still lounging - smoking his weed as if he hadn’t a single solitary care in the world. John’s annoyance grew exponentially.

“Well?” Anne grabbed Jack’s tablet from off of the end table and held it out to him, shaking it slightly. “Let’s have it.”

Jack stared at her for a moment longer, fondness evident albeit overshadowed by his own warped litany of ambitions. He reached for his tablet, tapped and swiped at the screen a few times while walking over to the loveseat, then settled into the cushions as his eyes scanned over what he’d been searching for.

“Outloud, Jack,” Charles reminded.

Jack cleared his throat:

“ _Bands who use anger as a gimmick are just fucking insulting,” says lead guitarist and songwriter John Silver. “We write about things that are real to us. There’s no fucking around. With us, what you see is what you get. The Gallows are as honest as Rock and Roll gets.”_

 

_There was a quiet buzz around the UK’s The Gallows before their official Friday night premiere. Fortunately, the show delivered in the face of all the hype. The rhythms were jagged, the guitars were loud and raunchy, and Anne Bonny’s voice cut through the mix like a knife. The vocals were what took it to the next level, bouncing between bassist Bonny and guitarist Silver to form a nearly perfect combination of howl and scream._

 

_Fed up with ‘emo’ bands who “disguise real issues with flowery lyrics”, The Gallows are a soundtrack to the downsides of modern life, especially life in England. They are a breath of fresh air, a caustic blast of hardcore punk with enough artistry mixed in to be easily digestible for modern music fans in a scene that so often confuses pop and punk. Their sound is at times very similar to British Punk bands like The Sex Pistols. Armed with a visceral live show, a rock n’ roll swagger akin to the Bronx, and the kind of songs that bring Punk roaring back into the 21st century, The Gallows are set to be the next big thing._

 Jack set his tablet down on his lap without another word.

“Did we just get compared to the fucking _Sex Pistols_?” Anne belted while slapping Charles’ boot in excitement.

Charles smiled and nodded, more to himself than to Anne.

“Holy hell,” John whispered, his hands going numb. “Holy fucking shit.”

He met Anne’s eyes across the room, her smile growing into a laugh as she dropped her head into a veil of her own hair. John’s heartbeat thumped loudly behind his ribs. Jack’s chest heaved with breaths of words he finally could not find the wit to string together. And Charles, well, Charles just grinned that stupid fucking grin that suggested he was above all of the hullabaloo, but John secretly knew better.

The tentative silence split as Anne screamed at the top of her lungs. “Fuck!!” She got up and stalked directly over to John, pointing at him almost accusatorily. “We did it you mop-topped son of a bitch!”

John rose and met her halfway, her body crashing into his with a loud thud as she pulled him into a hug. “ _You_ did it,” he corrected.

He caught a glimpse of Jack from over Anne’s shoulder; a paltry smile and a glance at Charles were the man’s only tells. As always, John could see right through the carefully crafted expressions, and as Anne’s warmth fell away, as her arms unhooked from his neck and she turned toward Jack in what was sure to be her next embrace, John’s anxiety hit the roof.

“So what’s next,” she asked, clapping an arm across Jack’s shoulders. “What the fuck are we gonna crush now?!”

Jack took in a breath. “There’s something we need to discuss.”

“No, there isn’t,” John warned. “It’s already been discussed.”

“What? You maggots makin’ decisions without me?” Anne asked playfully.

“She has a right to know, John, to decide for herself if--”

“Fuck you, Jack,” John cut in.

Anne’s eyes darted between the two of them. “Uhm…” She pulled her arm from around Jack. “Either one of you shitheads wanna tell me what the fuck’s goin’ on? Or am I just s’posed to keep standin’ here with my tits in the wind?” She traded looks with all three men, each one reticent in his own way. “Jack?”

“There’s an offer,” he pushed out.

“There is _talk_ of an offer,” said John. “The offer isn’t even tangible yet. It’s just another instance in which Jack thinks he’s smarter than everyone else--”

“An offer?”

“--and jumps the fucking gun as usual.”

Jack turned to Anne. “Yes, an offer. One in which John’s displeasure has been noted, as you can see, but--”

“Fuck displeasure.” John took a step forward. “Don’t make me out to be a fucking child. This is _wrong_ , Jack.”

“What’s the offer?” Anne asked.

“And who the fuck takes the first deal they’re offered anyway?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Someone who understands the business and knows how he can turn this offer into a hundred more.”

“Right. Jack knows everything. How could I have forgotten.”

“What’s the offer?” Anne asked again.

“Honestly, John, when have you ever been business minded? I’d love to see _you_ try and convince a major record label that they’ll recoup their advance and still turn a profit when you can’t even balance a fucking checkbook.”

John laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? Do you really think this is about-- ”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THE OFFER?!” Anne yelled.

“50,000. One album. With one option period.”

In all actuality, it wasn’t a bad deal, but John found himself wincing anyway, turning for the door to make good on his threat. It wasn’t worth doing this to Anne, but... what if she agreed? What if what John was really afraid of was having to be at the forefront of it all? Having to be the face of their success or their failure was more than he’d ever bargained for. And now, standing there as Jack called his bluff, he felt the bitter sting of both sides of him beginning to rip apart. He should have left but he stood there instead, waiting to see what Anne was going to say.

She let out a breath. “Christ. What the fuck are the royalties?”

“10%,” Jack said quickly.

“Pretty good fuckin’ deal,” Charles finally chimed in.

John glanced at him, almost forgetting that he was there. When he turned back to the pair, Anne was looking right at him.

“What is it?” she asked.

Guilt was one word for it. Abject fear and opposition were yet others. John was utterly conflicted in that moment, clenching his jaw and swallowing his repugnance for even considering this abomination a true option.

“There’s a… complication,” Jack started. Anne pulled her piercing stare from John and refocused it on Jack. “They love you. That isn’t the issue. And they fully recognize the necessity of--”

“Don’t fucking coddle me, Jack,” Anne muttered.

Jack nodded reluctantly. “They want John to be the lead singer.”

His head felt heavier in that moment than at any other time he could remember. John stared at the carpet beneath his feet. This was wrong. This was wrong. Wasn’t it?

“What?”

“This is what is best for all of us in the final analysis. You will sing at the head of this band, it just requires this sacrifice in the short term to ensure - Anne? Anne!”

Her footsteps sounded before she did. “Fuck you, Jack.”

The door slammed and the room gave into silence once more, with nothing but the muffled slide of Charles’ body from the couch to disturb it. John managed to pull his face level with the others around him again, just in time to catch Charles approaching Jack. He put a hand to the side of his face and kissed Jack rather gently for a man with hands which were rumored to deal almost exclusively in damage.

“Fuck you, Jack,” he whispered.

Jack tried to hide a grin as Charles walked around him toward the bedroom. Settling his eyes one last time upon John and seeming to read the sentiment there, Jack let out a sigh of his own. “Yes, I know, I know,” he nodded. “ _Fuck me.”_

  
  
**oo**

 

It sounded kind of wonky. John fiddled with the knob at the end of his guitar neck then pressed the E string down onto the crown of the fret with a bit more pressure this time. He plucked it to see if he could get a cleaner note, then nodded his approval. Much better.

Playing an acoustic guitar was slightly different from an electric one, as John was beginning to learn now that he’d bothered to dust off the one that had been lying in the corner of his apartment since he’d moved in. It’d been a housewarming gift from Jack, one which had earned a look of confusion from John, but a smile and a hug all the same.

He plucked the A string next, then strummed a corresponding chord. Fucking Jack. John hated when the smug son of a bitch made sense. It was far too bloody often for comfort, especially since it’d almost always started in direct opposition with everyone else. Jack had an innate confidence in his ability to change even the most stubborn of minds, to poke holes in the soundest of logic - he could’ve been trapped in a room with the starved and still been able to convince them all that letting him eat first would have been in their best interests.

John detested him for it, but admired it all the same.

So when Jack had told him that they could do this, that Anne had come around and seen reason after about a week of careful coaxing and a shit ton of _fuck you’s_ , when the offer came through in concrete terms and Jack laid out his plan to turn this one deal into a bidding war that would get their signing bonus into 6 digit figures, John felt himself wanting to believe it. A part of him could even forgive himself for the betrayal if it meant that they’d all be able to achieve their collective dream together.

The fucking lead singer. Shit. Could John truly carry a band?

What the fuck was he thinking? Of course he couldn't. This was a goddamn disaster waiting to happen. He couldn't carry them all. He could barely even keep his own head above water. With half a leg. With no sense of balance or strength left in his weary bones. What were they thinking? He was only half the man they all believed him to be.

His hand stopped strumming, falling flat against the strings to quiet their vibrations. John peered over at the coffee table, at the pill he'd set there for himself as a reward for an hour of guitar practice. It'd probably only been 15 minutes, but what difference did it truly make? No amount of practice was going to magically make him strong enough to face it. He was a failure. He always had been; he always would be. And only a fool would believe it possible to bend that truth now.

John set his guitar aside and slid the pill over to the edge of the table. He sat on the floor, grabbing a scrap of notepad paper he’d scribbled some stupid lyrics on and the spoon from an old cup of coffee that he'd yet to clean up from who the fuck knows when. He placed the sheet of paper over the pill, then used the back of the spoon to press down and crush it.

It took a few tries, a couple of loud thuds and few roll overs from the side of an ashtray, but eventually he grinded it down to a pretty fine dust. He took a card out of his wallet, some expired card for some store that he never went to anymore, but he didn't have a license or a credit card, and it felt pretty empty and unadult to carry around a wallet with only an ID card and 4 empty credit card slots. Honestly. Would he ever grow the fuck up?

The edge of the card sunk into the pale yellow powder, separating a portion of it out into a thin line about half the length of John's pinky. He began rolling up a loose quid when the soft light of his phone screen and the gentle hum leaping from it distracted him. He picked it up with a hint of a smile.

“Isn't it past your bedtime old man?”

A small huff blew in from the other end. “I thought about going to bed,” said James, “but then I realized that I hadn’t warmed your formula yet.”

John snickered. “Damn,” he exclaimed, leaning back into his couch cushions. “I have zero comeback for that one.”

Another little sigh from James’ end, which John figured was a smile. “How was your interview.”

“It went well, I think. I suppose I’ll know for sure if they call me.”

“If?”

The sound of running water from James’ end. “Yes. _If_.”

“They’ll call you,” John affirmed. “They’d be fucking idiots not to.”

Silence. John felt his forehead tense, but he didn’t quite know what to say to encourage James, and he wasn’t in the business of dealing false hope, so he simply upheld the quiet. Add that to the fact that this whole debacle was really all John’s fault to begin with and what resulted was a loss for words that was truly unfortunate. He swallowed his guilt, pushed his fingers around the hill of pill dust and pinched it into forming a tiny peek. He tried to think of something humorous to plug into silence’s place.

“How do you do that?” James questioned instead, voice small and just the right side of a rasp.

“Do what?”

“Sometimes you just speak as if - you’re so fucking certain that the world is yearning to bend to your every whim.”

The faintest of breaths pushed through John’s nose.  “Is that how it seems?”

“It does.”

It did. It had to. Because it wasn’t the first time that John had heard it. His ability to keep smiling, to keep the air about him alight as if he were somehow unfazed by it all, when inside he was raging, screaming, dying, fighting for his life with every loping step. He was used to being misunderstood in this way, but he hadn’t expected to have perfected it such that he managed to trick James as well.

“Well, I can assure you that that isn’t the case,” he said, “I don’t know _what_ the fuck I’m doing. I’m honestly surprised I’ve even made it this far.”

More silence - thick and almost hostile. John took it as his turn to fill it.

“I apologize. You called me and here I am taking hostage of the conversation.”

“No, it’s fine - I…” Flint fumbled for the words. “I just called because I - I bought all this salmon.”

The sound of running water again. John smiled. “Salmon?” he asked. He imagined James standing at his kitchen sink washing the pink flesh of the fish with the phone pressed securely between his shoulder and ear.

“Yeah.” James’ voice seemed lighter now. “It was on sale. And - I figured I might as well start learning how to shop more frugally now that I’ve no idea where my next paycheck will be coming from.”

“Frugally. That’s a good word. Although I don’t think salmon will ever be considered frugal.”

James chuckled softly. “Well, I can’t abandon my good taste,” he defended.

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” John teased, climbing up onto his couch.

“The thing about salmon is, it’s shit after you freeze it.”

“Is that right?”

James hummed. “And… I just made this bourbon and brown sugar marinade for it.”

A grin spread across John’s face, knowing exactly where this conversation was going. He opened his mouth to suggest that James might need a bit of help with eating all of this food, but he bit his lip instead. It was actually quite adorable how difficult this all was for the man.

“I was wondering if, maybe, you’d want to come over for dinner and... help a poor old man out of this pickle that he’s gotten himself into.”

“Well, I dunno. I mean, I’ve never been to your apartment before. What would the neighbors think?”

“Fuck the neighbors.”

“Well, I’m sure they’re quite charming but - I’d much rather be fucking you.”

This was no secret between them of course. They were far beyond the playful stage of dropping hints by now, although James did seem to enjoy the banter of it, and John didn’t exactly mind the freedom of injecting innuendo into any conversation at any given moment. It was almost like flirting, except for the fact that John had yet been given the chance to back up all of his mouth. In that regard, it was more so a reminder; an open invitation to James that John was keen on resending as many times as it took to get that RSVP back.

James was quiet for a moment, as he was prone to do whenever John had caught him off guard. “Bring scotch and wear grey,” he said finally. “I’ll see what I can do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai frands!
> 
> I truly have no idea what to say about this 12.5k monstrosity. My hand slipped? I have a lot of feelings? I know this update took forever, but I was plagued by the tragedy of needing to do a rewrite late in the fourth quarter, and then the season started and canon had me all fucked up in the game. If you're even still interested in this crazy story, I'm happy! Please enjoy my suffering :'D 
> 
> Thanks for reading. I appreciate you all. And now my brain is mush and I need to rest and prepare for the series finale. God help us all.
> 
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets, 
> 
> Trinity


	13. Lights Will Guide you Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue nudity ;)

It wasn’t exactly the hair, although he could admit that the curly spectacle may have been a part of it. It was more so the eyes, the deepness of them, the untold stories and experiences, the way they pondered James as if discovering a new layer or shape or color, blue flames flickering with equal parts lust and reticence.

James lowered his chin, tilted his shoulders beneath the pulsing jets of his showerhead. Soap and water weren’t really good lubricants, but he’d read somewhere that if he wanted to last longer he should rub the first one out now. He didn’t know how true it was but it seemed logical. And it couldn’t hurt.

It was the smile also. The genuineness of it. James was used to fake smiles and small circles of uptight professors and doctors all vying for their moment in the intellectual sun. But that wasn’t to say that John was not an intellectual; he very much was. It was just that little something that was _off_ about him, so to speak. There was this edge to him that undercut all of those smoother qualities. His unpredictable attitude. His quiet yet somehow overstated swagger. That damn smile. It only came out when John was happy or horny, and hidden within the steam and between those tiled walls, James realized just how much he was longing to make John both tonight.

He stroked faster.

If it ever had to be explained to someone else, James worried that he’d fall short. _What exactly do you see in John Silver?_ The obvious answer would surely be comprised of surface materials: John was handsome, yes. He was talented. He was charismatic and exciting. But digging deeper, being honest with himself in ways that he was not yet ready to make available to others, James was keenly aware of one undeniable truth: John was a stark contrast to Thomas.

It should then seem logical to anyone that he would long to break away from the safety and comfort of the life he’d once shared with Thomas in whatever way would facilitate healing, right? John was not safe. He was not comfortable. And such factors were quite conducive to the downward spiral that James was currently on.

Nevertheless, John made him feel alive; lit up from the inside out. Perhaps that was what he truly saw in him. Someone to illuminate the darkness. Perhaps, what James felt was simply one of those untranslatable words that Miranda was always going on about. This one, much to his chagrin, would probably come close to actual terror at the thing they were becoming - the darkness of it, the discovery, the sharp panic and unmistakeable gnaw of tripping and falling into an abyss called love.

The soft moan which filled the bathroom caught James halfway off guard, so caught up in his own inner workings that he’d brought himself to climax without even noticing the physical build up. He braced one hand against the wall, gliding his busy hand over water droplets and a puddle of newfound come, spending himself into the drain below with a quiet sigh and a shiver. Eyes shut, the memory of something quite similar haunted him between echoes of spattering water.

He’d come in John’s mouth once.

Jesus.

How could one be so aroused and yet so simultaneously terrified?

His brain supplied him with the not so subtle reminder as the tides of his orgasm ebbed, and James wasn’t entirely sure if the heavy breathing which followed was simply a part of the pleasure or the beginning of an anxiety attack.

Did he honestly _love_ John... _already?_

Is that how any of this worked?

“Shit,” he huffed.

  
  
  


Having gone noseblind to the sweet yet oceany smell permeating his apartment, James opened the terrace doors and took in the crisp night air. The stars were out in full force tonight. He checked his watch and figured that he’d have at least another ten minutes to ponder them before John was just as fashionably late as his reputation would allow, but in between the in and out of a cleansing breath came a knock at the door.

He’s on time? Christ. James wasn’t ready. He was though, in theory of course - dressed, combed, two shots into a semi relaxed state - but for some reason the heat of that knock began melting any modicum of preparedness still coating his nerves. He hurried to a wall mirror, pawing at the collar of his soft cerulean shirt and undoing another button, because really, what the fuck was he doing wearing a button down shirt to his own damn dinner? He should change his - shit, no time. There was supposed to be music playing. James turned and eyed the stereo with disdain for its inability to act independently and play the perfect ambient music on its own. He smudged a hand over his face, his heart beginning to pound at the tail end of another quick succession of knocks.

Hand on the doorknob then on his own shirt again, James quickly undid the last few buttons leaving the stripe of his white undershirt to peek through the opening. It felt more casual. And that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Just a casual dinner between two friends. Nothing to be so nervous about.

With a hardfought swallow, James opened the door.

“Surprise,” John said softly, a small smirk smoothing over every jagged ridge of James’ anxiety. How the fuck did he manage to do that? “I’m on time.”

James glanced at his watch again, as if he hadn’t just checked it a minute ago. “So you are,” he replied. He then looked down at the bottle John was holding because looking directly at the man seemed to be asking too much of himself in that moment. “But that isn’t scotch.”

John shook his head. “Keen observation,” he smirked.

James clocked his grey pullover on the way back up from the wine bottle, the way it draped snugly over his chest and shoulders, the way the V-neck teased at the suggestion of lean muscle, of a body that James was happy to have become more familiar with since the first time John had worn this despicable shirt, but was somehow still eager to explore a whole hell of a lot more.

John leaned against the doorjamb. “But, I have it on good authority that your knowledge of whisky far exceeds that of a cretin like myself. Wine however…” He lifted the bottle and held it out to James. “I read that Chardonnay pairs well with salmon.”

“That it does.” James nodded, grabbed the bottle and turned to allow John the space to enter. “But I already have some chilling.”

“I thought you might,” John returned, pushing off of the doorframe and stepping across the threshold. “Which is why I also brought this.” He whipped another bottle out from behind his back with a grin that James couldn’t help but mirror. “I figured, two mediocre bottles should surely amount to one that’s worth a damn, innit?”

“Springbank,” James read aloud, shutting the door with his free hand. “I’ve never tried it.”

“Charming American bloke at the store said it was ‘the best bang for your buck’ or something to that effect.” He held the bottle out to James. “Add it to your collection.”

James smiled and found the courage to meet John’s eyes for longer than a second this time, just in time to catch the man sweeping a stray curl out of his face with a quick twist of his neck.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the second bottle from him.

John nodded once, forcing that rogue strand of hair right back into its apparently undesirable resting place. James tried not to stare. “Make yourself at home,” he urged.

He walked the wine to the refrigerator, then brought the whisky over to the small cabinet where he kept all the rest of the alcohol. It wasn’t an extensive collection. James wouldn’t even call it a proper bar. He did, however, have to make room for this latest addition. He pulled out a half empty bottle of Angel’s Envy and set it on the end table in order to do so. John wasted no time grabbing it just before plopping himself down on the couch.

“Did you use this for the salmon?” he asked.

James shut the cabinet door. “No, but, come to think of it, I probably should have.” He wiped his hands on the thighs of his jeans, wondered if it was just him, or if he should set the thermostat lower. “It _is_ one of my favorites, though. Probably best not to waste it on a glaze.”

John read the label silently, sitting on James’ couch with his leg kicked up onto his knee. He seemed even more comfortable in James’ home than James himself felt right then, probably because he wasn’t scrutinizing his surroundings the way that James had worried he might. Then again, John could have very well been just as nervous as James. He did have an unequivocal knack for appearing unbothered when he was anything but.

“May I?” he asked, peering up at James.

And, oh. Okay. He _was_ nervous. He must’ve been looking to take the edge off.

James grabbed a glass from atop the cabinet and handed it to him. “Did you want some ice?”

Already uncorking the bottle, John declined with a quick headshake. He poured himself about two fingers worth and knocked it back rather quickly. James wondered if he’d even tasted it.

“Damn. That _is_ good,” said John, slipping his attention into the bottom of his empty glass.

James hummed his agreement. “You can have another if you like,” he added, taking a few steps back toward the kitchen. “Dinner’ll be ready in a minute.”

He turned, wondering if he should probably take another shot himself. But did they really need to drink to ease into yet another moment together? John had brought the scotch (technically). He’d worn the grey (again). Those were clear signals being sent, weren’t they? Clear, sober signals that James had been heard loud and clear that night on the phone, and even though there’d been no promises made for the outcome of this evening, the air was still becoming thick with all the implications of it. Wouldn’t it be something if, for all of his talk, for all of that blatant desire and unapologetic certainty, John was actually second guessing himself now, too?

James wanted to say something to make it clear that there were no expectations on his end, but as John poured himself a second helping of bourbon, he realized that he probably shouldn’t be injecting his own perception of John’s headspace into the realm of reality. He attempted to reign in his thoughts, grabbed an oven mit and pulled out the salmon.

“You have a really nice place,” said John, the clink of his glass upon the coffee table pushing James’ awareness outside of himself, where it rightfully should have been.

“Thank you,” he replied, squeezing a fresh lime onto his salmon. “I wasn’t exactly keen on such an open terrace when I leased it, but I have to admit that it’s grown on me.”

He looked up from the braised asparagus he was setting onto their plates to find John standing in the doorway to the terrace now, surveying the night sky.

“I can certainly see why,” said John. “I mean, shit, this is far better than my fire escape.”

“Your fire escape is still very special,” James reminded, his voice slipping onto the frightening side of sentimental.

John turned in the doorway, crossing his arms in the suggestion of thought. He may have been holding back a smile, but James tore his eyes away before the color that he felt rising into his cheeks could completely register in John’s reaction.

“That very well may be,” said John, “but if I had something like this”--he tilted his head toward the terrace--“I’d probably live out here.”

James muffled a scoff and rounded the counter, the neck of a chilled white wine bottle clenched in his hand. “Well, I’m glad you like it, because I was hoping we could have dinner outside.”

He’d never actually used his terrace for anything more than drinking, smoking, and reading, but James hoped that the sentiment would still ring clear in John’s mind. Once, John had invited him onto his fire escape, into a private place of reflection, a place where John had found solace and wonder amidst the the chaos of real life. And now, James was hoping to offer John a similar type of access to him. They’d eat, they’d drink, they’d talk, and simply see where the night took them. It seemed pleasant enough; innocent even. So why the fuck were his hands shaking?

“Way ahead of you,” John encouraged. He took the bottle from James’ hand, but if he noticed its jitter, he did a great job of ignoring it. “You grab the food, I’ll grab the glasses.”

With a nod, James turned back toward the kitchen. See? This was easy. It was casual. John wasn’t making it weird. It was just two friends having dinner and maybe having some sex later. Maybe. And that elephant in the corner of the room surely needn’t be acknowledged just yet.

“Holy mother of - are those vinyls?”

James felt his neck stiffen, eyes shooting across the kitchen island toward John. Words fell short as he watched him, everything plummeting into slow motion. John set down the wine and the glasses, knelt to the lowest part of the bookshelf, tucked his hair behind his ears and began to thumb through a collection of records that had remained virtually untouched in that apartment until this very moment.

“You’ve got vintage Pink Floyd here. Queen? The Doors? The fucking Ramones?” John kept sifting through the stack, his voice going up an octave with every new discovery, cutting through the haze of helpless tension crowding into James’ head. “Oh shit!” he called out. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

In John’s hand was a record with a pale yellow jacket: James’ copy of _Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols._ He watched John flip it to the bright pink backside as if the man wasn’t sure it was real.

“What the fuck are you doing with this?!” John questioned. “I thought this ‘ _wasn’t your speed_.’ ”

A gentle nod and a sigh were James’ only tells. “There still happens to be a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Clearly!”

“It still isn’t my speed,” he clarified, finding words a bit easier now, although his grip on the plate in his hand was admittedly tighter than it needed to be. “The record was a gift. As were all of them, really.”

“A gift?! This LP is easily worth two hundred pounds, bruv.” John shook his head and set the record down softly. “I need to make friends like yours.”

James grabbed the second plate and made his way to the terrace. “Well, I’m sure it wasn’t that expensive when she bought it,” he explained, and Christ, he probably shouldn’t have said that. He paused in the doorway, fumbling for better words. “I... don’t think - I’m pretty sure I’ve never even listened to that one.”

“Tell me you’ve got a record player,” John said immediately, getting to his feet with the vinyl in tow.

“You want to listen to punk rock while we have dinner?”

And the gleam in John’s eye right then, the smile that was spreading across his face as he clutched that album to his chest like a child with a shiny new toy - warmth curled in James’ chest and shoulders, melting the icy chill of anxiety at the sound of John’s carefree ‘ _Why not?’_

Of course James could think of a million reasons why not. The neighbors for one. The impropriety. The miniscule yet not wholly invisible challenge it presented to his delicate sensibilities. But when she’d gifted James the collection, Miranda had told him that he should play each and every one at obscene volumes, even if they weren’t _his speed_ because ‘ _there is an inverse relationship between the degree of one’s happiness and the concern one suffers for what the neighbors think.’_

She had always been a lover of music of all genres - some of which were rather surprising to James upon first listenings, some of which made him downright uncomfortable - but it was her passion, her enthusiasm that would always help him to see the artistry in all forms of creative expression. James had wished he was half as artistic as she. At times, simply trying to keep up with her made him wonder just what the hell such a free spirit saw in a square like himself. He’d been trying his best to live just as free as she’d shown him was possible in the months before he’d lost her. She’d made it look so easy. James had learned the hard way that it was anything but.

So, when he showed John where the old phonograph was, saw his face light up as he unsheathed the record, heard the distinct sound of stomping and the first guitar riff, he tried to remember that it was alright. It was alright to listen to punk rock during what might have been a rather stuffy dinner date had it not been for John’s intervention. It was alright if the music was kind of loud, if John’s jeans were kind of ripped at the knees, if his hair was kind of tousled as it bounced to the gritty rhythm. It was even alright to come to admit that he kind of liked the album by the time the wine was gone and the dishes were cleared. The dinner conversation it’d inspired was centered around culture, society, and art as medium for personal revolution. To say that James was fascinated was an understatement. His mind was sparked in a way that it hadn’t been since his last conversation with...

When they’d traded wine for whisky, John lit a cigarette, seeming to find a distinct measure of joy in the song currently playing. He put a foot onto the adjacent chair and leaned back in his seat. “So tell me why I’ve never heard of this friend,” he asked, the alcohol at his lips seeming to give him permission to shift their banter from broad topics to something far more personal. “Your friend with the impeccable taste in music who would gift you a bloody Sex Pistols vinyl of all things. It seems we’d get along.”

James carefully ashed his own cigar while John set down his glass, unsure if the twinge in his belly was the return of anxiety or the fresh face of fear. “She…” He shifted in his seat, reached out and cupped his glass of whisky but didn’t bring it up to drink. He could do this. He _should_ do this. Talking about her should not be so difficult. “She was my best friend,” he said.

The music just so happened to stop right then, the end of the record dropping them both into an uncomfortable silence. Great. James took in a mouthful of malty smoke and held it for a bit longer than was necessary, letting the taste weigh heavily into places upon his tongue lacking any desire to form words.

“Was?” John asked.

A nod behind the rim of his glass and a cloud of smoke were James’ only answers. And with that hesitation, John appeared to at least try and resist the urge to prompt any further explanation. James was grateful when the man used his next breath to inhale his cigarette rather than ask another question, but the feeling was short lived.

“Did you have a falling out?” escaped with John’s exhale.

Shit. James felt his head shake rather quickly. He blinked down at the table. “No. Nothing like that.”

He could feel John’s eyes on him, but he prefered to keep his own fixated on the grey swirl floating up from his cigar. It wasn’t an intimacy issue this time, or even a fear of being judged that made James hesitant to share this part of himself; it was simply that he’d never been made to speak on any of this before. How did one lend words to a story that, up until then, had only managed to live on through vivid memory alone?

“Oh,” John said quietly, after an apparent moment of clarity. “I’m… Shit, I didn’t mean to just - I would have never--”

“You didn’t know.”

“Right, but - I shouldn’t have just gone through them without--”

“It’s alright.”

“--asking you first.”

“Look, I’m glad you found them.” James reached across the table, wrapping a reassuring hand around John’s wrist and meeting his penitent eyes. “I honestly can’t think of a better person to share them with again.”

John forced a curl into his lip, staring down at James’ hand. “Shut up.”

“Seriously.” James squeezed John’s forearm. And the possibility struck him in time with John’s full attention, made him think of the trust he and Miranda had built fashioned out of small, soul-baring moments like these. Was he letting John in? One touch, one word, one secret at a time? “They should rightfully be appreciated,” he continued. “They meant a lot to her. And she… she meant a lot to me. ”

New words such as those felt raw in the evening air, and with their quiet escape, a profound sense of insecurity dampened James’ courage. He could almost feel the filter of John’s private contemplation grating down on every word in an effort to find its true meaning. He swallowed, immediately understanding why John had always had such a huge problem with James analyzing him. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling to have no control over someone else’s interpretation of you.

After a moment, James felt it appropriate to pull his hand away, but John’s hand found its way over his before he could manage it.

“Then we should play the Pink Floyd next,” John proposed. “What do you think?”

James felt himself nod. “I think that’s a great idea,” he said.

A hint of a smile, quickly hidden behind the end of a cigarette. And just like that, John’s touch was gone, his skin no longer warm beneath James’ palm, his eyes no longer searching with that intensity which had so easily pushed James off balance. It was as if the man knew exactly how to maneuver around all of James’ walls, when to chip away, when to knock, when to avoid the soft spots altogether. James sighed as John searched through the pile of vinyls for the record in question, unsure of how to navigate the feelings which arose from the understanding that he himself was now the experiment for a change.

In truth, his own psyche was a terribly dark place. James felt no shame in admitting that - that, or the fact that he’d much rather be playing in the heads of others than allowing anyone into his own, into a prison that even he had often tried and failed to escape. He’d spent so long denying the possibility of ever being understood by another human being that the thought of experiencing true acceptance now felt almost completely unfathomable. But John, for all his fear of being misunderstood, had never once hidden who he was from James. He, in all his crookedness, still managed to bloom in the midst of crippling darkness. And it was precisely that type of courage, that specific strain of strength, which was silently giving James the permission he hadn’t even known that he’d needed. Permission to shed his own cowardice. Permission to move into the light. Permission to share himself, to learn himself, to _be_ himself, too.

He found his mind wandering back to his lecture on the shadow self, following the thread of thought just as John adjusted the volume of music to a level befitting a quieter conversation. John always seemed to know just when to do things like that, didn’t he? James remembered how he’d coincidentally showed up in class just after that lecture, how he’d made James shiver with a graze of a finger, a soft word, and the gentle gaze of acceptance. He thought about every single way that John had managed to light up the darkness, despite never having any idea what lied beneath or any fear of what he’d uncover. He was so fucking brave. God damn. The least James could do was try.

That in mind, James rose from the table and made his way to the railing of the terrace, whisky and cigar in hand. The moon - with the one and only face that it’d ever bothered to expose - slanted its brilliant light between a patch of clouds too flimsy to stifle it. The night air brought with it a cooler hug around him. The chill of it in his lungs kept him forcibly grounded while thoughts of his crescent moon tattoo swelled to the surface. And just like with the dark side of the moon, James wondered what face, if any, he’d even be able to show to John now.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?”

James turned an ear toward John’s voice, toward the eerie melody floating from the doors of his apartment, but didn’t move to tear his gaze away from the moon and look over just yet.

“It is,” he managed.

He took in the sensation of John’s tranquilizing body heat as it crept up beside him at the railing. God. What it must feel like to be taken apart by such willing and capable hands. James all but wished upon that moon that he could somehow manifest the type of wanton desire rumored to be prompted by its fullness. He wanted nothing more in that moment than to experience the glory of those hands again, of _touch_ itself, but he understood that this moment was altogether different. These touches carried with them an unyielding weight: the relentless and irreparable force of sex. And to invite physical destruction upon himself in such a mentally vulnerable state...

He shut his eyes. He couldn’t. He knew that he couldn’t. Because what if John took it too far? John had a problem with boundaries. He pushed too much sometimes. No. James had to remain in control of it all, lest the entire experience send him running back into his own darkness for good.

“Are you alright,” John asked, voice curling around the music.

“No,” James heard himself say, and the unrehearsed honesty forced his blood to pump faster in his chest. His hands began to shake again, but he made himself look at John anyway.

“What is it?” Concern pinched John’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Not wrong,” James countered, breath falling short. “Just… difficult.”

And as if a lightswitch had been flipped, the worry living in John’s eyes disappeared, replaced itself with something far more perceptive. He glanced down at James’ hands, at where his glass was resting on the bannister and his cigar was tucked safely between his fingers. Slowly, and keeping eye contact with him all the while, John carefully lifted his hand, took James’ cigar from him, wrapped his lips around the tip and started smoking it himself.

The slight contact and the suggestion in John’s expression caused James’ eyelids to flutter, doing their best to mask his uncertainty as he looked away. John was still staring when he looked back, only this time he was moving to take James’ glass of whisky from him too.

James looked on, perplexed but in no position to argue as John downed the rest of the drink. He then set the empty glass next to his own and took another toke of James’ cigar.

“There,” he chimed in. Finally. The tone of his voice almost harmonious with the tune of fading music. “Now you’re free to do what you’d _really_ like to do with your hands.”

Fingers closing around empty air, James found himself fighting the urge to look away again. John’s attention felt disarming. It felt dangerous yet paradoxically inviting. And as if under a spell almost too strong to notice, James cringed, fear giving way to something he was unsure how to negotiate right then. He longed to reach out, to meet that challenge head on, but then John was sliding a fingertip over his knuckle, touching him soft and reverent, as if James was something to be careful with, as if he was worth the wait.

“You’re afraid,” John spoke, and James felt himself fight the nod which came reflexively, realized that his valiant effort to hold eye contact had also failed again some time ago. He’d helplessly fallen into the sensation of John’s skin slipping over his instead. “You want to push yourself past it, but you’re worried that your desire and mine, when mixed, will make for an untenable outcome.”

No one’s voice should be so smooth when slicing open another’s soul, James thought. He slowly raised his eyes to meet John’s again. “How do you know that?” he asked, half distraught over his own transparency.

John balanced James’ cigar atop the mouth of his whisky glass, finally granting him a reprieve from such an arresting spotlight. “Well. I realized long ago that people say the most when they aren’t saying anything at all,” said John, “and that - if you really want to get at the truth of a person, you’ve gotta learn how to listen to everything that they don’t know how to say.”

He held James’ silent attention then, eyes flicking back and forth before finding a final resting place upon his lips.

“You want to kiss me,” James said softly, reading exactly what it was in that moment that John himself did not know how to say.

“Not as badly as you want me to kiss you,” John said back, locking eyes with James once more.

The tip of John’s tongue barely parted his own lips, sending heat to bloom deep into James’ abdomen. He pressed his nails into the palm of the fist John caressed with what felt like all five of those fingertips now, shuddered yet again at their soft slide in and out of the grooves between whitened knuckles and skin pulled taut and strained and warm.

“Tell me you want me to kiss you,” John whispered.

James exhaled, more laugh than sigh though the margin was admittedly slim. John was testing him again, pushing those boundaries exactly the way only he had known how. It was damn fucking clear that James wanted John to kiss him, but John was going to make him say so first. Because it wasn’t about the kiss. Not really. It was fully about the admission. The vulnerability. The surrender.

This little, fucking, shit.

James shifted his weight, uncomfortable with his inability to pinpoint the part inside himself that was being so remarkably stubborn right then. It wasn’t as simple as pride, or fear, or ego. What was keeping him stuck dwelled somewhere darker, hooks sunken deep in the muck of a rocky foundation.

He reached out and grabbed the hem of John’s shirt, but could not for the life of him get his own lips to form around the words.

At that small hesitation, John took a step forward, coming fully into James’ space. He curled around and feathered his next words directly against James’ ear. “You are in complete control,” he said, lightly pressing a hand to the other side of James’ neck. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do. Whatever you want me to stop, I’ll stop.”

“That’s not what I want,” James let out, finally recognizing himself. “I don’t - want you to have to hold yourself back… I just…”

This felt just like that time at the diner, that time when he’d reached over the table and discovered that slow, passionate trail along the branches of John’s tattoo. Except, there was no hunk of cold, hard metal keeping them apart now, no waitress interrupting them, no theories to test about touch aversions or stories to trade about inked skin. All this fucking time had passed since then, all these failed attempts and fumbled words, but somehow, somehow John could still make James feel simultaneously lost and found within the wake of a simple touch alone. And as his hand found it’s way up John’s arm this time, feeling every bit of the flex in muscle speaking to the restraint of this man’s desire, James tipped forward, eyes shut in complete and utter mystery, silently yearning to discover the only man who had ever succeeded in finding him within the suffocating darkness.

They melted together almost instantly, effortless, like the moon pulls the tide to the shore. James swept his hand up into the waves of John’s hair, fisted his shirt as a small yet oh so clear whimper bridged the tiny gap between their lips. Lightly, so damn lightly that it was almost unbearable, John carefully licked James’ top lip, so soft that what they’d done thus far could barely even be considered a kiss - just hints of teeth and tips of tongues and warm breath that was achingly intoxicating. James felt wrapped up in him, although, save for the hand still poised motionless beneath the hinge of his jaw, John had yet to embrace him at all.

And then, finally, one mouth sealed against the other, the slotting of lips so complete that James had to take the resulting gasp in through his nose. It jolted him into John’s waiting arms, sent him flying and falling all at once, until all that was left was the taste of sweet bourbon, the scent of tobacco on saliva soaked skin, and the welcomed caress of guitar born callouses at the nape of James’ incredibly sensitive neck.

He’d just wanted to be able to be _there_ , in that moment. That was what James had been trying before but had failed in finding the words to say. He’d just wanted to be capable of letting his guard down, of trusting that John would not get so caught up that he’d forget just how fragile this moment could be. It was true. He was afraid. But in that truth sat the key to his salvation. In surrendering to the impossible _what-if_ of that moment, James had looked a demon right in the eye, and dared the motherfucker to deny him.

“God,” he exhaled once he was finally able to rip himself away. “John...”

“I’m here,” John whispered against his lips, one hand pressing firmly into James’ back, grounding him. “I’m here. Can you feel me?”

James nodded, eyes pressed tightly shut, breaths coming and going in tremors.  “I want you,” he admitted. “I don’t--”

“Look at me.”

“I don’t know how control it.” His eyelids sprang open with the final word of his confession, finding fresh courage in the passionate eyes lying in wait across from him. “I can’t--”

“Then don’t.”

And there, buried in the darkest recesses of that volatile moment, lied the crux of it all, the truth that James had no idea how to even begin to say. He wasn’t actually afraid of John. He wasn’t afraid of the man’s desire, his penchant for throwing caution to the wind, his unpredictability, his lack of boundaries, or the uncontrollable alchemy of a flint being sparked by a hard slab of silver; what James was truly afraid of was his own reflection. He knew somewhere deep down that he craved to surrender to this part of himself for so long, this untamed part, this feral part, this shameful part that had rendered him riddled with guilt and unable to bear touch at all. What James was afraid of was the shards of himself that John Silver reflected right back, the parts of him that slithered forth from perdition, and everything he’d be capable of were he ever to give up the illusion of control again.

“Don’t,” John repeated.

He’d been careless with Miranda. And thence, the demon born of the circumstance had been given a name.

“Don’t.”

But it was simply a phantom. A bastard. It wasn’t real. This. _This was real._

John pushed forward, pressing his forehead fearlessly against James’ own. “Let go,” he said, soft but demanding - confident, as if James was hanging by a lonely thread; as if John hadn’t a single solitary doubt in his ability to catch him should he fall.

“Let go,” John said again. “Grant yourself the permission to be free.”

Breath. Lips. Nails, hair, skin. The trust of a hug. The courage of a kiss. The whimper of surrender. The purity of a tear and a tongue-tied revolution. James felt his armor falling apart in John’s arms. His knees went weak. His belly twisted tight. His chest pounded against John’s own but he did not waiver. If this moment were to be his destruction, James could no longer envision a better way to die, and he would find no pair of hands more deserving of his death - the sweetest of sacrifices.

He felt as if steam must be rising from his skin if the way John was neglecting it were any indication. “Touch me,” he mouthed into John’s lips.

Hands raked through James’ hair as John found better use for his tongue than the foregone question of _where_. He knew exactly where to touch James, where his body needed it most, and not even a second later was he pulling James’ undershirt away from his waist to prove it. He undid James’ belt, unclasped the button on his jeans, pulled down the zipper and slid those eager hands right into James’ boxers then. “Like that?” he whispered into fevered flesh.

James turned his head suddenly, remembering the uncontrollable openness of their surroundings, searching the windows of the adjacent building for any judgmental eyes.

“Come back,” John coaxed, mouthing at James’ pulse and sliding his hand along the shaft of his dick. “It’s just me and you, yeah?” He cupped James’ face. Tender reassurance against quivering skin. He kissed him limply, waited for James’ eyes to return to his before repeating his promise. “It’s just me and you.”

James shut his eyes and breathed deep as John made a fist around him and gently tugged upward. His head fell forward onto John’s waiting shoulder, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as the grip of John’s palm pulled him closer and closer to not giving a single fuck who would happen to see.

An unworried whine mingled with his next exhale. James clutched at John’s bicep with one hand, made his own fist in the hair at the nape of John’s neck with the other, matching his breaths in time with the slow slide of John’s palm back and forth over hardening flesh.

“Where’s your bedroom?” John asked, voice low, and more demand than actual question.

Something James simply could not deny right then urged him forward in that moment, pushed John backward toward the apartment step by lustful, dangerous step. They walked as one, with John’s hand still securely in James’ jeans upon entering through the terrace doors. They passed the couch, kisses growing deeper, hands growing impatient with the unfair obstacles of clothing. James shrugged out of his button up with more than enough help from John as they moved farther into the hallway. Feeling around for the doorway to his bedroom, lips busy, heart racing, stomach flipping in place, James pulled John across the threshold by his belt. He backed them both slowly into the room until his legs hit the side of his bedframe.

The lights were off but the blinds were open, casting pale moonlight across the walls and bright splashes of grey against the deep red bedspread. James sat back upon the edge of the bed as John pushed forward, parted his knees to make room for John to continue to limit the heated space between them. Eager breaths and hungry kisses played harmonies with the silence. Quiet now. So damn quiet that James could have sworn he’d heard the rap of John’s heart against his ribcage. He slid his hands up John’s damp torso and removed that despicable shirt.

John was so fucking gorgeous, just standing there, still, body glistening with a thin layer of sweat, necklace teasing at the cut of his chest with its almost shameless silver glint. He went in for another kiss but James stopped him with a hand against that beautiful chest. He looked up at him, wanting, waiting to see just what this walking piece of art could possibly paint for him next. But John only reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind James’ ear, let his chest heave beneath James’ palm, silent, but brimming with unmistakable passion. Patient. Trembling with desire, heart thumping uncontrollably against James’ fingers, but still so amazingly fucking patient nonetheless.

“Let go,” James echoed back, his voice trembling but his resolve more sound than ever.

And he didn’t wait for John’s reaction before he was pressing his lips into his stomach and working his way up over his chest, tongue settling into the dip of John’s neck. John shuddered and folded over him, making reticent fists in James’ t shirt and moaning softly.

“Are you sure?” James heard him say.

He went for John’s belt by way of an answer.

Touch. What a miracle James had been depriving himself of for so fucking long. John’s hands were magic, just the weight of them as they slid along James’ shoulders was enough to cause James to bite into whatever skin he could find. John grunted, lifted James shirt over his head and promptly tossed it away.

James rose then, finally getting John’s jeans undone. He laced a hand through his hair, kissed him and turned him so that his back was the one facing the bed now. He lowered John’s jeans and kneeled along with them, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down the strong line splitting the muscles of John’s stomach.

“Fuck,” John sighed, pushing a hand through James’ hair.

On his knees, James pushed gently at John’s hips, coaxing him to sit back on the bed. John complied, wordless, breath hitching once upon a swallow, pelvis shaking under the slippery heat of James’ tongue.

“I want to know what you taste like,” James whispered into the waistband of John’s underwear. He looked up at him, taking in the full view of the man responsible for stoking that flame.

“Christ, you don’t need permission,” John said after a moment. “You can do whatever the fuck you want to me.”

That was all that James needed to hear.

He tugged at John’s boxers, lowering them to his thighs and exposing his thick, swollen cock. It was overwhelming. More beautiful than James had imagined since that time they’d joked about it in John’s bed. James wondered how anyone could ever see it and not immediately want it inside of them.

Sensing John’s self-consciousness, James pressed his lips to the fleshy tip of that cock, batting away the panicked voice in the back of his mind asking him just what the fuck he thought he was doing. He pulled back the foreskin, licked at the slit, opened his mouth around the head, and took John in with one slow and deliciously steady suck.

A delicate hum of approval barely escaped above him. Still holding back. Still unable to take his own fucking advice. James sucked harder, deeper, longing to hear John’s irrefutable pleasure sounding across the room.

John slid a hand behind James’ head. “Fuck, you’re really - _ah,_ really _fucking_ good at that.”

That was definitely not something James heard every day. Truth be told, he hadn’t been in this position in far longer than he’d ever care to admit. He’d almost forgotten how much he’d enjoyed it, how much nails at the back of his neck made his own cock stiff with need in his jeans, and how much the pulsing slide of a dick over his tongue made him want to fuck a man into the bed so hard that he couldn’t look at him the same afterward.

He was lost in it then - the fantasy - slipping off of John and eager to make it a reality, needing him completely naked above any other need he could presently entertain. James pulled down John’s jeans, half forgetting his leg.

“Wait…” John muttered, reaching for James’ arm.

James pulled back, in a haze, shaking his head. “Sorry, I - I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s alright,” John said quickly. “Just - come here.”

He grabbed either side of James’ face and pulled him into an innocent kiss, so soft that James could almost feel the glow of immediate forgiveness. John maneuvered his leg how he needed to while James took off his own shoes, and once the leg was removed, James found himself wanting more than anything else to follow whatever instruction came next.

But words never came - instead, a pregnant silence as John removed the rest of his clothes without so much as a glance James’ way. When he was done, he sat there, head slightly lowered, wearing nothing but the liner to his prosthesis. His hands gripped the edge of the bed.

“I haven’t--” he started, pausing to swallow. “I can’t remember the last time that I was fully naked in front of someone. Not since...”

And there it was, the trade off; the vulnerability that James himself had feared exposing to John being mirrored back to him within the breath of a single sentence, showing him exactly what needed to be seen, and exactly how it should’ve been done.

James wrapped a hand around the back of John’s neck. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he said firmly, without the slightest need for a second thought.

“Stop,” John said, voice faint. He grabbed James’ wrist, pulling it toward his mouth and pushing a kiss into his palm. “You don’t have to s--”

James twisted out of John’s grip and found his own upon him, silencing John with a deliberate press of his hand against an erection which was clearly in no danger of failing. “Does this feel as if I am in any way turned off by the sight of you?”

A bashful grin partly hidden beneath a curtain of hair and a playful squeeze through fabric. “No,” John concluded, finally looking up and meeting James’ eyes again. He rubbed along the seam of James’ boxers. “But I’d have to see it to be sure.”

The grin was returned, and at that, James hooked his thumbs under his jeans and boxers, tugging downward at both until he was finally stepping out of them.

They stared for a moment, one at the other, quietly comparing imagination to blessed reality. John’s fingers slid over the vein in James’ abdomen. James’ nails skimmed the length of John’s thigh, doing his best not to dwell on the self inflicted wounds there, but also not making the mistake of avoiding them altogether.

John audibly trembled and shut his eyes while James used his other hand to lift his chin. He tilted John’s head up and stole those stuttered breaths right back with another kiss.  

“Fuck,” John murmured as James pressed up against him. He wrapped his leg around the back of James’ thigh, gasping and tugging at his shoulders, pulling the shaft of his dick flush against his own in a tangle of limbs and incredible heat.

Feet planted firmly on the floor, James allowed the top half of himself to be pulled down over John’s body. John collapsed against the sheets, his leg coming up further and resting atop the crest of James’ ass. His hands were undisciplined, groping and scratching and sliding over James’ back and through his hair, sending James into a spiral of moans and sucks and licks and kisses that dizzied him past the point of no return.

James lifted his knee onto the edge of the bed, rutted against John’s already reddened cock. “I want to fuck you,” he said between kisses, “just like this.”

After a bitten back whine and a vulgar kiss, John immediately asked, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for?”

At that, James instantly pulled away, not so much that their bodies were no longer touching, but just enough so that he was upright again and able to lean a bit to his left in order to open the drawer of his nightstand. John kept his leg secured around him as if the threat of losing any of the warmth accumulated between them was an unthinkable feat. He sat up, mouthing lewd bite marks against James’ chest. James fumbled through his drawer, half trying to see and half trying to catch the kisses John was desperately tossing at every bit of skin he could find.

When he found what he was looking for, he met John’s lips again, grunting through a bite to his lower lip that made him wrap a hand around John’s neck, if only to settle him enough so that he could slick his fingers with the lube.

James flipped the cap open with his thumb while John took his hint and fell back against the sheets again. He slid his other hand down from John’s neck, down, down, over his chest, his stomach, his dick. John’s body jumped when the touch landed beneath his balls, slippery and hot against the place where they both needed it most.

One finger lost to him, massaging John’s insides, James tossed the lube by the pillow and used his now free hand to stroke his dick against John’s. “You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he whispered, otherwise watching quietly as John scoured his own hair for any bit of the control he was quite obviously losing.

“Am I?” John asked, practically out of breath.

James stared down at him, wordless, letting a second finger slip inside and do the answering for him.

“Jesus,” John whined, body writhing. “What the fuck. God. What, the, _fuck_.”

He reached out and tried to grab… something, anything that was attached to James, anything that would bring him together with the man that was currently breaking him apart. James knew all of this - knew exactly what he was doing, knew exactly what it was doing to John, what John wanted, what he _needed -_ but he denied him anyway, grabbing John’s wrist and pinning it down against the bed while his other hand fucked mercilessly into him, opening him, readying him for everything that he’d been taunting within James for as long as he’d fucking known the man.

The control was goddamn exhilarating; the awakening of this dormant part of James even more so. He leaned over, reaching once again into that drawer and coming away with a condom this time.

John tried to reach down, tried to continue the glorious slide of one cock against the other, but James batted his hand away once again, pinning it to the bed.

“You’ll touch yourself when I want you to,” he asserted, teasing at the hint of a third finger with one hand and slipping the condom into John’s hand with the other. “Open that.”

John unwrapped the condom without a breath of hesitation, but when he held it back out for James, he was met with only a headshake. “Put it on me,” James instructed, sliding a third finger home. And John complied after a helpless moan, but was once again met with a disapproving headshake, and the sole addition of, “With your mouth.”

A staggered gasp was all that John could muster then, with James’ fingers pulsing in and out of him. James couldn’t see the color in John’s eyes within the moonlit shadows of the room, but he could still tell that they were dark on their own accord, and he was willing to bet that John would do any damn thing asked of him from that moment on.

James’ dick twitched with the possibilities.

John slipped the ring of the condom over his lips while James slowly pulled his fingers out of him. James climbed up onto the bed, straddling John while the man got himself to his elbows. The back of John’s head in one hand, the shaft of his own dick in the other, James slid into John’s mouth, carefully letting the condom unroll over him until his dick hit the back of John’s throat.

“Good boy.”

John shut his eyes, mouth still full, hums of submission and need falling from him in any way that they possibly could. James let go of his head then, allowing him to get comfortable once more against the mattress. He secured the condom fully over his own cock, a small twinge of pride blooming in the way that John wore his arousal in the gaze being cast up at him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John muttered, sinking his nails into James’ thigh.

James went unaffected by the scratches which followed as he backed off of the bed and made to stand at its side once more. “What?” he asked, reaching for more lube, the feeling of a smirk too strong to hold back egging them both on.

“I’ve never wanted to fuck someone as badly as I want to fuck you right now.”

James pushed his thumbs into the crooks of John’s hips where thigh muscle met bone, squeezed his fingers around and pulled John toward the edge of the bed with one quick, businesslike jerk. “If you’re good you might get the chance,” he teased, pouring out a bit more lube and slicking himself up with it as John watched, “but I think we can both agree just how badly it is that _you_ need to get fucked right now.”

John bit his own lip as James lifted a knee back onto the edge of the bed once more. He grabbed a handful of sheets while James lined himself up, shut his eyes as the head of James’ cock pressed against him - slow, wet, hot, in... John moaned through his nose as James’s eyes fell shut, too.

Unimaginable. No matter how many times it had been imagined in the months leading up to it all, James immediately learned just how crucially he’d failed to do any justice to the way that John felt. So tight around his cock; so smooth, so warm. He pushed deeper, pulled back, pushed deeper still, over and over and over, sliding further into bliss with every stroke, finally opening his eyes and allowing himself to be fully enveloped in all of it.

He grabbed the leg that was sprawled over his elevated thigh and repositioned it up against his shoulder, folding over John and grinding into him as far as the man’s flexibility would allow (which was honestly too fucking far). But John only hissed and moaned while James took up more and more room within him, pulling at James’ shoulders and the back of his neck like what he was getting wasn’t nearly enough.

“Yes,” he sighed up at James, licking his lips between quickening breaths. “Fuck... yes.”

They were two, and then they were one, with John’s leg falling from between them after a while, knee finding a more comfortable position against James’ ribs. One body met the other like a match strikes up a flame, allowing both their mouths to collide and finally seal off any remaining separateness.

James fought the relentless urge to get lost in the man beneath him, fought the subtle ways his eyes were glazing over, fluttering and trying to roll back in his head. It was too good. John’s skin, his hair, his touch, his taste, his scent, the sounds he was making, the sounds _they_ were making, the liquid warmth stretched around James and the strong line of heat twitching in one solid chunk between them. The way John was looking at him, focused and intense, as if he were almost angry for being kept from this for so long.

It was just - _too much_.

“Harder.”

Digging and burying himself inside, James swallowed John’s pleas, his breaths, his meager attempts at fully formed words. He held John’s bucking hips in one hand, cupped the back of his head with the other, drilling in, grinding home, until all that was left was a moaning, writhing, sweating heap of muscles and flesh, clawing and biting and swearing at itself for having the audacity to be so goddamn perfect.

Lord. Nothing in the world should be this good. Nothing. In the. _World._ James could handle the mounting pressure of their shared rhythm no longer. Shit - the sensation creeping into his balls as they tapped against John was as yearned for as it was downright unwelcome. He quickly snaked an arm under John’s waist and lifted gently, just enough to back him up and give himself the space necessary to find better, _safer_ leverage. Because fucking John on the edge of the bed like this was fast becoming the best way to end things before they even got started.

“Please,” John huffed, feeble, desperate, reaching out and trying to keep James as deep inside of him as possible. He grabbed James’ wrist, wrapped his leg around James’ waist again, determined to gain back the irrecoverable space.

James kept John at bay, though, right where he needed him, stroking him just deep enough to prolong the pleasure but just far enough to keep himself from teetering over the much too-fucking-close edge. But the act seemed only to make John grow wilder, frantic with desire and mumbling pleas for more, more, more.

He watched as John wrapped a fist around his own cock, pumping it from head to base. James decided not to stop him this time, mesmerized by the sight of it but having to shut his own eyes to control the tremble of orgasm inching into his spine. Jesus. What the fuck was he so afraid of? Surely they could go again after this, couldn’t they? Surely John would let him have this once more - and innumerable times more. Surely the exquisite torture of edging closer and closer to illustrious release didn’t have to result in an absolute ending to the freedom that James was finding in the dark. James closed the space between them in one, long, hard slide, sinking as deep into John as he could go, thinking about how John could maybe even sit on his cock for the second go ‘round, and whether he’d prefer to ride James’ dick while facing toward or away from him.

Fuck. He had plans. And it’d been so long since his mind had been granted the permission to work that way. James slammed into John, harder, faster, hiking John’s ass up with two handfuls and forcing yelps from the man that made James bite into his shoulder, if only to make him scream louder beneath him. Nails ripped into James’ back as John’s dick pulsed through the friction created between them, and James suddenly realized that John was actually going to be the one to come first. Something devious twisted within him right then: the decision that he just could not allow for such a thing to happen yet.

“Turn over,” James commanded.

A whine, not a protest exactly but the type of quiet argument bemoaning a blissed out exhaustion. James felt a smirk pull into his cheek, a dark satisfaction pooling in his chest at the fact that he’d been able to push John into such a humbled state. He pulled out while John uncurled his limbs from around him and flipped over onto his stomach, a silent enthusiasm that was subtle yet could not be overlooked.

John peered over his shoulder, hair strewn about and body slick with sweat. He met James’ gaze once more in the silence. “What?”

James hadn’t realized that he was staring until then, lost in the mounds of John’s perfect ass, the slope of his back, the expanse of his shoulders peeking through the waves of mercilessly deep brown locks. He shook his head. “ _Fuck_ I’m gay.”

A laugh, unfairly adorable for a man so goddamn sexy. John turned onto his side and reached out. “Show me,” he replied, pulling James’ hand.

James climbed over and hovered above him, letting his heavy cock fall helplessly against John’s ass. He nosed John’s sweat slicked hair away from his neck so that his tongue could get at the salty warmth of him.

John hummed and sighed his approval, reaching back and slipping a hand through James’ hair. He lifted himself up into his mouth. “You like how I taste, daddy?” he whispered.

James sighed hard. “God, don’t”--he bit John’s neck--“don’t fucking call me that.”

“Why not?” John pushed his ass up into James’ groin. “You love it.”

“Are you _trying_ to get hurt?” James asked, making a possessive fist in John’s hair.

John bit his own lip while James sucked an earlobe into his mouth. “Maybe.”

At that, James began pouring over John's back with sucks and bites that were sure to leave behind painful albeit welcomed reminders. He made quick work of the lube once more, leaned over the back of John’s shoulder and kissed him, rubbing it into the cleft of John’s ass with his cock while soft moans feathered against his lips.

“Fuck me, daddy,” John purred into his mouth. “Please.”

James lifted his hips, just enough to take his own dick into his hand and slide back into John without having to sacrifice any more distance between them. He rested his chin against John’s shoulder and stroked him while John raked scratches into his neck, panting and whining, gorgeous beneath him, reminding James of the delicate and beautiful balance between pleasure and pain.

It was slow. It was salacious. Unlike the frenzied fucking of earlier when they’d both been caught up in the rawness of craved bodies finally being consumed. This was sensual. It was fucking vulgar in its beauty. And James’ cock ached with simultaneous need and satisfaction because of it. The way John was receiving him, vulnerable and unafraid and willing, catching whatever James decided to throw at him, letting James crash into him with crushing wave after crushing wave of hard dick…

“I love you,” James heard himself say, just seconds before he came undone.

He wrapped his arm around John’s throat, teeth grinding through a climax that made him see white behind his eyelids from squeezing them so tightly shut.

“Show me,” John whimpered, thrusting back against him, riding James’ dick all the way through his orgasm. “Fuck. Show m--”

A single, solid bite to James’ arm, then John shook and swore and spilled himself empty right underneath James, too.

 

**oo**

 

  
The soft whistling quickly swelled to a high pitched squeal before falling back into silence. James took in a rather deep breath against his pillow, rubbing his eyes and thinking it a dream before hearing the distinct sound of cabinets opening and shutting in his kitchen. He squinted at the window, out into the dreary morning which had seemed to be trying its cloudy best to beckon him into the land of the living.

Sleep was a luxury he could scarcely afford. Especially not now; not when he hadn’t woken up next to John like he’d gone to sleep looking forward to. James half wondered how the man had even managed to evade his arms without waking him in the first place.

He sat up, casting an eye about the room for - something. He wasn’t sure what. Perhaps the courage to face John after what he’d said to him last night? The fortitude to stand by his declaration, even if he wasn’t fully sure that it was a sincere one? Well, he’d said it, he’d told John he loved him, so the feeling must’ve come from somewhere. Chances were slim that it could be explained away so simply as the rantings of a man at the peak of sexual bliss. James wasn’t in the business of doling up idle words in passionate moments, even if the moment in question _was_ one of which he’d been severely out of practice.

He thought of announcing his presence by flushing the toilet - a subtle way of letting John know that he was awake in hopes that the man would make an appearance in the bedroom again - but something convinced him to creep in and see what it was John was actually up to in his kitchen instead. It felt warm to imagine John touching his possessions, making himself more and more familiar with the outer expressions of James’ inner workings.

A pair of pajama pants and a t shirt later, James was tugging the collar away from rubbing against a raw patch of skin that’d been sucked into him the night before, and padding over the hardwood floor toward the kitchen.

“Shit,” John said, looking at James from over the rim of a cup. “Did I wake you?”

James ignored the ill feeling being conjured up from seeing John fully dressed. “No,” he lied. He looked beside John at the stove, wondering if the man had even planned to wake him before he left, or if the teapot responsible for rousing him was a merciful coincidence.

John followed James’ gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said, setting his cup down and grabbing the teapot. “I’ve grown rather used to living alone. I’m afraid my morning routine isn't exactly conducive to silence.”

He seemed… off. Nervous even, turning awkwardly to fetch a mug as James took a seat at the kitchen island. “I hope you don’t mind me taking it upon myself to make some tea,” he continued. “I don’t do well without caffeine in the morning… and you don’t seem to have any coffee.”

John poured James a cup and slid it over, then resumed drinking his own. It was the vanilla chai. James’ favorite. Of course John would choose James’ favorite.

“Were you just going to--” James stopped at the abrupt display of John’s finger, a clear signal that another moment was needed. He watched, confused as John took a rather large gulp, cycled through a rather large breath, then lowered his finger, meeting James’ eyes and nodding for him to continue. “Really?” James questioned, rhetorical but puzzled nonetheless.

John smirked apprehensively, shaking his head. “I just - needed a bit more caffeine to be able to answer the question that I know you’re about to ask.”

James lifted his brows. “And what question is that?”

Another sip, then John answered, “Whether or not I was going to leave without waking you.”

The way James’ heartbeat sped up made him grip the handle of his mug. The sinking feeling in the middle of his stomach also didn’t help anything. When had James become so infuriatingly transparent? He took his own sip of tea, finally, letting the heat of it melt the chill of discomposure threatening to form into words.

“Well, were you?” he supplied next.

John sighed into his cup. “I hadn’t decided yet,” he admitted.

Unsure of what that meant, or how exactly to even feel about it, James took to looking everywhere except into John’s eyes. He noted his posture, how John stood slumped against the oven, breaths shallow and energy quite obviously low for someone holding James’ most potently caffeinated tea in his hand. Had John even managed to get any sleep?

“I’m sorry. I’m not good at these.”

James paused the scratch he was managing through the hair on his chin. “What’s that?”

“Awkward mornings after,” John clarified.

“So you’d just leave? Without any thought given to what that might look like to me?”

John took another sip before answering, his calmness somehow having the opposite affect on James altogether. “I’m not”--he bit his lip, seeming to want to assemble his sentence with the utmost care--“I can’t be held responsible for managing your perception of my actions, James. Yours or anyone else’s for that matter. I - I stopped living that way years ago… and I sure as hell don't intend to start now.”

“What the fuck does _that_ mean?”

“It means,” John sighed again, “that I’m simply not good at awkward mornings after. Nothing more; nothing less.”

James’ mouth twisted into skepticism before he could think more tactically of it. Who exactly did John think he was fooling? It surely couldn’t have been that simple.

“D’you think I am?” he asked, something indignant brimming up from that insecure place that he hated to visit. “I’m fairly certain that I have far less experience than you do when it comes to one night stands, but even I wouldn’t leave you in bed after a night like last night without having the decency for a proper goodbye.”

“Is that what this is?” John asked, slightly tilting his head to the side. “A one night stand.”

“You tell me. Is it?”

John quirked a brow, letting a breath of apparent disbelief settle into the tension between them. And James hadn’t meant to insult him by insinuating that John would use him like that, but he’d never forgotten what John had mentioned once about needing to consume people either.

He’d spent all this time painstakingly earning James’ trust. He’d lulled James into the kind of security necessary for the dropping of guards in the first place. So seeing him now, so complacent, hearing of his willingness to leave James to wade through the aftermath of all of this alone - the fact that John was even capable of such a thing turned something sour in James’ belly.

“No,” John spoke at last, “at least, I certainly hope not. You know far too much about me now. I’d surely have to kill you.”

James scratched across one of his eyebrows, trying not to overreact. “Please don’t make fucking jokes right now,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” John returned immediately, all mirth gone out of his voice. “Coping mechanism.”

The air at James’ disposal began thinning by the second. He wrapped his other hand around his mug to steady it, trying to remain in tune with his breath and the mounting tension squeezing into his jaw. Was he simply the latest of John’s conquests? An experiment that John didn’t know how to pull out of now that he’d gotten the desired results?

“Hey,” John said softly, setting his mug down and leaning over the counter. “Hey. Come back.” He placed a hand gently against the fist James was making around the handle of his cup. “What happened last night… I heard you - I _hear_ you. Loud and clear. And I do not take it lightly.” John paused, reeling James’ gaze back in. “Please just - please don’t project your expectations onto me.”

James stared at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I know how you need to psychoanalyze people. That’s _your_ coping mechanism. Always knowing what everyone else is thinking, what they’re feeling, what they’re doing, _why_ they’re doing it - it’s how you cope with the fact that you have no control of the world or all it’s taken from you. It’s how you stay safe, and--”

“Stop.”

“ _And_ ,” John repeated, speaking over him, “I _accept_ that about you. But you have to understand--”

James pulled his hand away abruptly, sending his cup of tea splashing across the kitchen island. “Jesus - would you just--” He took a breath. What the fuck was this. What the fuck was John on about? He stood up, unsure of what to do next. “Just, stop,” he cautioned, one hand extended to emphasize the boundary.

The sound of tea trickling onto the floor drew James’ attention for a moment, but the silence wrapped around it eventually prompted him to hazard a glance at John again, fully expecting to see the man across from him dressed in the harsh color of judgment. To James’ surprise, however, all that he was met with was John’s quiet contemplation.

“You have to understand that sometimes,” John spoke again, his continuation soft and careful, almost as if he were undeterred by James’ outburst altogether, “even an expertly crafted analysis of a person can be wrong.” He dipped his chin a fraction lower, took a step a fraction closer. “And that’s okay. It’s okay to not know everything, James,” he nodded. “You’re human. You’re allowed to be wrong.”

Wrong about what exactly? About John’s feelings? About his motives? About the nature of a man who would rather dance around in the shadow of nuance than risk being completely seen in the direct light of an explanation?

“So what are you saying?” James demanded. He was spinning. He knew that he was spinning, but. “That I’m wrong about you? That the fact that I’ve told you I love you isn’t the _real_ reason that you wanted to leave this morning?”

“God damn it, James,” John said faintly. “Yes. You’re fucking _wrong_. And I’ve told you a million times not to analyze me, yet you persist. You continue to assign your own meaning to my actions - without even bothering to consider my reasons for them.”

“I am _asking_ you for your reasons right now. You simply refuse to tell me.”

“No, _you_ simply refuse to believe what I have _already_ told you.”

“You're right,” James said, contradictory to the headshake which followed. “Because it cannot be that simple - _you're_ not that simple.”

“Well, I thank you for your analysis, _doctor_ ”--James rolled his eyes at the barb--“but I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree.”

“Of course you would.”

“Of course I would?” John shot back, brows pinched. “Oh, really. Why’s that?”

James huffed through his nose. “Because you’re running.”

“Running?”

"Yes."

“Alright.” John crossed his arms and shrugged. “Why am I running?”

James blinked, feeling off balance. “I - I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Oh!” John laughed. “Oh, alright. So you actually _don’t_ know why I wanted to leave this morning, but you’re certain, whatever it is, I _must_ be lying about it.”

“That's not what I'm saying.”

“So who am I in that head of yours, bruv? A pathological liar? A commitmentphobe?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, please.” John stepped past James and motioned at his furniture. “Do you need me to lay out across the couch for you while you fetch a notepad? Hmm? Tell you all about what my father did to me? What my mother _didn't_ do?”

“Enough.”

“Yes, James. _Enough_ ,” John echoed, standing in the middle of the living room now. “I have been fighting your preconceived notions of me since the moment we fucking met. And it’s like every single bit of new information you get about me gets filtered and twisted into something that I simply cannot--” He cut himself off, clenching his fists in front of his chest. “What more of myself do I have to offer up to you? Huh? How much more transparent do I have to be before you turn that high powered perception in on yourself and realize that your distrust of me - of _us_ \- has very little to do with _me_ at all?”

James couldn’t hold back the scoff then. “Christ, you - you’ve been trying to break _me_ down for months,” he defended. “Slowly chipping away at my walls, tricking me into believing--”

“Tricking?”

“--that I could let down my guard. I’ve been letting you in, piece by terrifying piece… And you’re gonna stand there and act as if - as if _you’re_ the one being picked apart in all of this? You’re not even fucking sure if this is what you want! How the fuck am I supposed to feel about that?”

“Well perhaps if you'd stop trying to diagnose me and actually started listening to what--”

“Oh, I fucking hear you, John. I hear all your excuses. I hear _everything_ you don’t know how to say.”

John said nothing, simply let his eyes fall away.

And in that moment, James saw it, the alchemy of two conflicting perceptions, the paradoxical mirror being held up to him, showing him his own grotesque treatment of those who had loved him once, too.

The sting of deja vu sent him spiraling into an abyss of projection in order to make sense of it. This desperation laced desire to know the truth: it had been exactly what he’d put Thomas through staring back at him through the eyes of a curly haired junkie.

And James resented John for it.

“Fuck,” John muttered then, raking both hands through his curls until they were resting against his crown. He squinted. “There isn’t a goddamn thing I can even say to you right now, is there? You’ve already made up your mind about me.”

James turned, fetching a hand towel from the drawer and beginning to wipe up the spilt tea before it started to stick. He said nothing.

“So that’s it?” John questioned next. “You’re just going to shut me out now?

“What more is there to say?”

“Oh, I don’t fucking know, James. Maybe… maybe we could discuss the fact that I’m being punished for being unable to live up to this idea of me that you’ve created in your head. Or how about how easy it seems to be for you to reduce me to the sum of my missteps as if they are some - _personal_ affront to you. Either of those things. For starters. Pick one.”

A glance, but otherwise, silence. Because maybe this was actually James’ punishment instead. It didn’t matter what John had or hadn’t done. Maybe James had actually deserved this particular brand of heartache. For Thomas. For Miranda. Maybe his heart was only meant to be cracked open one last time, in order for it to stay fully broken, unable to hold love for another again.

James turned the knob on the faucet and ran the tea-soaked towel beneath it, methodically rinsing it, ringing it, then resuming to clean up the mess. He felt fury. He felt confusion. He felt pain and sadness and even the wily stab of misplaced sympathy as John came to stand but a few feet away from him, staring like a neglected puppy waiting for its owner's attention. He didn’t know what to say, what to do, which feeling to act on first should he even act at all. So he just - wiped.

And wiped.

And wiped.

Until that familiar numbness seeped into him, and he needn’t feel anything anymore.

“Or why don’t you ask me the question that you’d really like to ask me?” John said, his voice low.

James couldn’t help but notice the audible tremble in it, but he’d grown too detached by then to truly care. However, he did stop wiping. Mostly because there was nothing left to sop up; partially because of the question.

“This again?” James asked, unimpressed. He tossed the wet towel into the sink.

“Was I wrong the first time?”

He wasn’t. But James’ almost undetectable nod had nothing to do with John’s ability to read him earlier. And so he dried his hands, leaned against the counter, folded his arms over his chest, and waited to see what part of him John was planning to consume next.

John licked his lips and mirrored James’ pose against the kitchen counter. “You want to know if I love you too,” he said.

And that - that was far too fucking much for James to bring himself to let slide. He’d let John worm his way far enough into his head already, to the point where he was no longer even certain if his thoughts were truly his own. Of fucking course he wanted to know if John loved him. But there was no way he was going to admit it. Not after this. No. No more. The time for giving John the ammunition for James' destruction was going to end. Here. And now.

“You’re a fucking parasite,” James whispered.

John blinked back. “Is that what you think?” he asked quietly, a small nostril flair beneath glassy eyes.

_Just go. It’s what you wanted to do anyway._

John nodded as if he may have actually heard the thought bouncing off the walls of James’ head. He took a few steps toward James until he was fully in front of him. He stared directly into his eyes. “Fuck. You.”

The immediate whip of cold air and hard distance that John made no hesitations in leaving behind as he walked past James stung a bit more than it probably should have. James reached over and turned the cup on the counter upright, needing something in his hands, something to hold onto while trying not to drown in the crushing waves of anxiety washing over him.

This was exactly why he never opened up to anyone. He should have taken heed of the voice in the back of his mind warning him that John was no different, no more worthy of the gift of James’ vulnerability than anyone else who’d taken advantage of it in the past. James shut his eyes around the tears beginning to form, the sound of the creaking front door causing his breath to catch around the rising lump in his throat. John was right about one thing: James _could_ be wrong. He’d been wrong about John all along.

After a moment, listening for the distinct shut of the front door but being met with only silence, James looked over his shoulder to determine the reason behind the sound’s absence. He found John standing with one hand on the doorknob, staring down at the floor.

“I’ve never asked you for anything,” John said finally, not bothering to look up from the floor, “that I’ve not been willing to give to you myself, or that I’ve not already given you… despite little to no reciprocity on your end.” He lifted his head, but didn’t turn it. “I’ve never internalized your weaknesses. I’ve acknowledged your efforts. I’ve looked past your shortcomings regardless of how they’ve made me feel. And yes - yes, I’ve certainly tested your boundaries, and definitely crossed a line or two, for which I am sorry. But I’ve _never_ asked you to give a goddamn thing that I would not give _right back to you_ _in a heartbeat_.”

James looked away, words slicing into him deeply; the pain John was wearing, a bitter salt that needn’t be cast into the wound.

“I’ve been digging... I’ve been - trying to uncover a place within myself that can fully provide what it is that I believe you deserve,” John went on. “Somewhere free of fear. Somewhere full of possibility. I know it exists, I just… haven’t located it yet. So the things I’ve done, the things I have and have not said, I understand if you perceive it all as if I’m not fully invested in this.” John drew in a shaky breath. “But I need to do things _my_ way. And I can’t keep apologizing for the fact that my way is not always transparent to others.”

The door creaked again, prompting James to turn, finally, not sure what exactly it was about the sound that stirred him into the act.

“You’re not the only one allowed to be afraid,” John went on, his voice more direct. James could feel the man’s eyes on him but couldn’t bring himself to meet them. “I let you in also. I let you in _first._ I let you see me, with full knowledge that you could twist all that you saw into whatever you wanted, and distort me the same way that everyone else has. But I _chose_ you anyway. Despite my fear. Despite my belief that no one could possibly understand or know how to love someone as broken as me.”

And if he wouldn’t have felt it all at once, he would have sworn he could actually hear all the blood draining from his face. James’ heart picked up immediately. His cheek muscle twitched. He clenched his jaw to try and regain some semblance of control, but he couldn’t stop blinking for some reason, couldn’t catch the breaths tumbling out as if his entire body were coming alive again through no permission of his own. He loved this man. He loved John. What the fuck was he doing?

James shut his eyes, knowing that he should say something but unable to sift through the panic and actually get at any of the words. “John…”

“Perhaps it is just as you once said,” John reminded. “Everyone is a monster to someone... Since you are so convinced I am yours, I will be it.”

He pulled the door open fully and made to walk out of it, but James was there in the blink of an eye, throwing a forceful hand against it, wrapping John up in a fit of passion and regret and kissing him into the wall beside them. It was the apology that James hadn’t known how to voice. It was a declaration of understanding, of acceptance, of submission. James was sabotaging himself and he knew it; stupidly allowing his fear of being exposed to morph into an unwillingness to extend to John the same amount of patience he’d been so easily afforded. How could he be so fucking blind?

James was wrong. He was _allowed_ to be wrong. He was _allowed_ to fuck up. He was _allowed_ to be so completely transparent, without worry that John would twist his vulnerabilities into perversions or judge him for any them. He hugged John tight then, grateful, breathing deep into the crook of his neck, wishing that he’d known, pledging that he’d learn how to count all the ways in which John had shown him love among those things that the man in his arms had not known how to say, too.

“I’m sorry,” James said. "I’m sorry."

And John hugged him back, tight and sure, anchoring James with every bit of the intensity necessary to communicate forgiveness. “It’s alright, love,” he whispered into James ear. “I understand.” He kissed James’ face, let his lips linger against his cheek, pressing into his skin as he said, “I happen to fucking love you, too.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else likes dying and being dead?! (^_^)/
> 
> Once again, thank you all for sticking with this story even though it's taken me almost 2 months to update. But this chapter is almost 15k, so hopefully it was worth the wait! 
> 
> 2 chapters left for these knuckleheads. I cannot believe. It's been quite a ride.
> 
> Thanks for reading. I appreciate you <3
> 
> Stay tuned.
> 
>  
> 
> Love & Rockets,
> 
> Trinity


	14. And Ignite Your Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Silver, ladies and gentlemen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***
> 
> Again, this chapter may contain some potentially triggering elements. Please check the tags for any new ones that may have been added, or if you need to refresh your memory, or you can just message me for elaboration 
> 
> ***

______________________ 

 

_The absurd: it is that divorce between the mind that desires and the world that disappoints, my nostalgia for unity, this fragmented universe and the contradiction that binds them together._

_~_ Albert Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus

 

John shooed a bug away from his coffee with the same hand which held fast to his cigar, incidentally causing a bit of the inch long ash he’d achieved by then to fall from the tip and into the cup. Perfect.

“Fucking--” He peered down into his sullied coffee with a sigh. “God damn it.”

“Here,” came a voice from behind him, one hand slinking into his hair while a soft pressure rested against the top of his head. A kiss, John realised. “You can have mine.”

Another sigh, unintentional this time and completely opposite in sentiment. “Thank you,” John said faintly, looking up at James and taking careful stock of just how easily the man had always managed to pacify that thing within him - that thing which, under normal circumstances, responded only to controlled substances alone.

James set the cup down on the patio table and took a seat across from him, his skin already starting to flush in the splashes of morning atop the sunlit terrace. John caught himself beginning to smile but stuffed it back like a puppy too eager for his treat.

It was in quiet surprises like these that he’d often find himself reflecting on just how far the man in front of him had come. Just months before, he’d been sitting across from James too, peering out against the fluorescent lights of that auditorium at this freckled, fiery mess who’d been fidgeting in his chair while refusing to look up at anyone. And now… God, even the most colorful crooks of John’s imagination had never once managed to twist themselves into anything that could’ve remotely resembled the place in which they’d now found themselves. Together.

Of course, he hadn’t felt then any of what he felt now, but John saw James then as he did now, recognised him as a work in progress and a masterpiece, simultaneously. Because he understood then as he did now that the best things were always built upon their own ruins, built to be greater and stronger and more beautiful than ever with their own ashes as the mortar. John knew from personal experience that Rome wasn't built in a day - and by virtue, James Flint would not be either. But it was still comforting to witness all the dust he’d kicked up as it finally began to settle.

“What are you smiling about?” James asked, scratching lazily at three-day-old stubble.

John was staring. He knew that he was staring, but. He shook his head free of the overwhelming fondness he felt. “Did you sleep well?” he asked before taking a sip of coffee.

“I did. And you?”

The heat of the drink slid down John’s throat, mingling with the warmth already brewing from seeing James sitting across from him in nothing but a towel. “Of course,” he returned, quietly trying to parse the peculiar flavor of this particular roast. “It’s not exactly difficult after the fourth orgasm.”

“Four?” James repeated, sounding unsure. “ _Hmph._ I must have lost count after the shower.”

John let his smile form fully this time, wrapping it around the end of his cigar as he was lit up by the memory. His eyes skipped over to some distant spot in the sky, searched the pale blues for a mental callback of all last night’s activities. He exhaled. “I actually hadn’t counted the shower,” he admitted. “It was the couch--”

“Then the shower.”

“--the shower, the wall by your bed, then twice _on_ your bed.”

“Twice?” James switched his scratches to the other side of his jaw. “I don’t recall a second time.”

“I’d honestly be surprised if you did,” John teased. “I was far too fucking exhausted to make it a spectacle. And you were probably far too busy coming yourself.”

A hand smoothed over the beginnings of a moustache before James had finally decided to leave his scruffy face be. “Shit,” he said softly, either unwilling or unable to meet John's eyes. “Am I as insatiable as you make me sound?”

And if he hadn’t known any better, John would've thought that James’ tone was edging toward the wrong side of concern. “Well, I doubt I'd use that particular word...” He looked on as the obvious discomfort began to carve itself into two familiar lines above the bridge of James’ nose. “Wait, why do I have this sinking feeling that you're asking me that as if - as if having a high sex drive is somehow a _bad_ thing?”

“Isn’t it?”

John blinked his confusion. “No,” he decided, scrunching his eyebrows and sitting back in his chair. “No, I wouldn't say so. Why? Have you been convinced of otherwise?”

“No. Not exactly.” James did look up then, but it was only for a glance. “I suppose I've just learned somewhere along the line that sex was--that _my desire was_ \--something which required regulation.”

“Regulation?”

James nodded once. “It can get out of hand,” he admitted with a half-hearted shrug. “I'm just asking so that I can better control it.”

“Jesus, James. What is it with you and that fucking word?” John chuckled, heat pooling in his abdomen for all that James could possibly be holding back. “The last fucking thing I want you to do is _control_ it. I thought I'd made that clear the first night we were together.”

“You say that, but… what happens when I need more than you're willing to give?”

“I honestly don't see that ever becoming an issue.”

“It can be. It has been. For me,” James said quietly. “And I don't want that again. Not for us.”

“That's not us.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because you're grossly underestimating just how badly I want to fuck you.”

At that, James returned a modest laugh of his own. “I assure you, the novelty will wear off.”

“Then I suppose we'll just have to keep trying new things.” John sucked his teeth. “What a shame.”

Humor was what he'd been going for, but what he’d gotten from James instead was something confusingly akin to worry. John’s mirth faded as James said, “You have no idea the things I am capable of. The things I've done…”

“I'm sorry, am I supposed to be afraid?” he came back, refusing to give James that particular lane. He leaned forward a bit, dropped his chin just right. “Because I’m honestly just really turned on right now.”

The smallest twitch just below James’ left eye had meant one of two things: either he was annoyed that John wouldn’t take him seriously, or the thing that he was trying to warn John about had just caught wind of the permission it’d seldom been granted.

“So you're dangerous,” John continued, nonchalant in his goal to fan the flames of the latter scenario. “Is that what you're trying to say? That I should be cautious? In coaxing this uncontrollable beast within you toward the surface?”

James’ eyes were piercing now, fixed wholly and completely on John; relentless, as if taking his tone as a challenge but fighting the idea altogether.

“Yes,” he answered, almost inaudibly.

A chill swept across the length of John’s shoulder, never once mistaking himself for the type of man to back down but shivering with the prospect of being conquered nonetheless. “Well, I'd like to take my chances, if it's all the same to you.”

He took another puff from his cigar before deciding to drive his point home, the smoke still hovering between them as he said, “Because I think losing control is exactly what the fuck you need James Flint. Perhaps relinquishing it on your own accord, even more so.”

A quick argument between two birds on a flimsy branch was all that filled the resulting silence. John let James marinate for a moment longer, sipping his coffee before deciding to grant him some sort of reprieve from his own deafening thoughts. “And so what if you are this… insatiable monster that you speak of? Wouldn’t that reflect more on my shortcomings than your own?”

The wrinkles were back above James’ nose again. “I’m sorry?”

“Well, you don't hear me complaining, right?” John shrugged, bringing his cup up for another sip. “I happen to be thoroughly satisfied with your performance thus--Christ, did you put whiskey in this?”

James snorted. “I _am_ part Irish.”

“Right.” John shook his head and swirled the coffee around his mug absently, continuing with his train of thought. “So the fact that you’re not satisfied--”

“I never said I wasn’t satisfied.”

“But it was implied.”

“No. I simply asked if I seem insatiable.”

“Alright - so if you do, wouldn’t that mean that _I’m_ the one who’s failed here? At satisfying you?”

“In what world is--”

“Hold on.” John raised the hand still wrapped around his cigar and took another sip of the spiked coffee before sliding the cup over to James. “This is the part where you’re going to say something to the effect of satisfaction not having the same connotation as satiation, yeah? I know, I know.”

“Because it doesn’t. There is context to consider. Nuance.”

“Perhaps. If you want to argue over petty semantics.”

James reached for the mug and took his own sip. “I wouldn’t call it petty. If I am insatiable, that is my own inability to be fulfilled. It doesn’t necessarily reflect on _your_ inability to satisfy me.”

“But it doesn’t _not_ reflect on my inability either - theoretically.”

The half-smile which spread out across from John was short lived, but the eye contact remained. “Well, it’s nothing you need worry yourself over.”

“Oh, I’m not worried.”

“No?” James asked after another sip, watching as John simply shook his head with a slow and steady exhale of cigar smoke.

“Someday you’ll finally allow me to try and satisfy you in all the ways that you’ve satisfied me,” John said to him. “Until that day comes, I am not worried in the least by whatever labels anyone decides to affix to you. Present company included.”

With that hanging in the air, John tried to soften his gaze, wagering that the man who’d been fucking him unconscious all weekend, who’d made him come five times just yesterday alone, who’d marked him with hickies and bruises and bite marks would never grant himself the permission to be just as vulnerable any time soon. It was a conversation that needed to happen, to be sure, but as James’ attention fell to the table between them, John understood that it was probably also a conversation for another time.

_Boundaries, John. Boundaries._

James, for his part - extraordinarily gifted at establishing and maintaining a certain level of separation between them, almost as if he had mastered the excruciating art of smiling and looking away - knew exactly how to make John feel as if he’d never be able to get the full story. He’d be sure to deflect the understanding that John was always so eager and ready and willing to give with an ease that was downright maddening.

But sometimes, sometimes John would luck into a moment like this one. A moment when James’ gaze wouldn’t stay lowered and he wouldn’t position himself so frustratingly out of reach. Sometimes they’d find themselves sitting together in silence, one staring encouragingly at the other, the air thick with words unspoken and the overwhelmingly tangible prospect of _more._

James’ lips parted with the breath of a response, and John felt his heartbeat hasten at the possibility of finally having that conversation. He was so hungry for James in so many ways. There was so much he didn’t know, so much he longed to understand about him. It was quite honestly becoming embarrassing in his own head.

“Are those my reading glasses?”

“Oh, uh,” John mumbled, having forgotten that he was wearing them. “They are.” He immediately thought to pull them off but decided against it. “They were sitting on top of the book so I figured…”

James folded his arms, his head dropping slightly to one side in a way that made John's back stiffen just a bit more than good posture would've called for. Shit. Were these Thomas’ glasses? Was this book another gift from James’ late best friend? Oh, Christ. This was just like the records, wasn’t it? Fuck, he’d done it again. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid!

“They look good on you,” said James. Finally.

The tension in John’s shoulders dissipated, but just barely - still so fearful that he’d make a mistake, still so worried that he’d say something, do something, push something inside of James that needed to remain immovable for now. All anxieties aside, theirs was a bond still tenuous despite the progress they’d made and everything they’d already shared. Their argument just days before had proven that - that two ruined people could not simply put their respective rubbles together and expect for all of the pieces to fit seamlessly. Love admission or not, once false move could’ve sent all they’d since built together toppling. He’d’ve been a fool to ignore that.

“That cigar has been out here since last night, though,” James continued. “I can’t imagine that it still tastes any good.”

“It’s fine,” John said with a one-shouldered shrug, deciding that the obvious change in subject was probably for the best. He squashed the thought that James might have done it to purposely knock him back off balance, then replied, “I ran out of cigarettes last night, so.”

James scrubbed a hand through his damp hair, seeming hesitant. “I’ve been holding you captive, haven’t I?”

“You can’t capture the willing,” John said easily, the thought just as preposterous as the beads of shower water currently cooling on James’ skin.

Although - and John hated the feeling of it before his brain had even managed to lay words to the idea - it _had_ been three days. Three days for which he hadn’t taken any of his meds. Three days for which the coffee had been subpar and his emergency weed stash had run dry. With no cigarettes now, all of his metaphorical crutches were gone. And the nagging twinge in his leg was without its only known buffer.

James was good, but he wasn’t _that_ good.

“We can pick up some more cigarettes if like,” he suggested. “Maybe even some food that doesn’t come in takeaway containers.”

“That’s alright,” John said, settling the cigar into the crevice along the rim of the ashtray. “I have to meet with Jack later. I can just rustle some up then.”

There was a flash of disappointment behind James’ eyes, but he nodded nonetheless.

“But I’d love to come back tonight”--John reached across the table for James’ hand--“if you’ll have me.”

A smile. But just barely. The kind that only crinkled the outer creases of an eye and nipped at the corner of a mouth. James looked down at the hand clasped over his, and then asked in a voice that was almost inexcusably soft, “You mean you aren’t tired of me yet?”

“The list of things I have to be tired of is plenty long,” John said, his tone soft too, in a way that he hoped James would notice, “but if you’re even on it, you may find comfort in the fact that you are at the very fucking bottom.”

“That is actually fairly comforting,” James chuckled, his face scrunching in adorable reservation, “but - I do have an interview in the morning that I should probably prepare for. So as much as I’d like to spend another night with you, perhaps it’s best that you lie to me.”

“Oh thank God,” John huffed, feigning relief. “I thought you’d never let me leave. I was half expecting you to hobble me like Annie Wilkes did Paul in _Misery._ "

James snorted, and John returned his smile, squeezing his hand a bit tighter.

There was love there. Obviously. John could feel it in the way that James smoothed a thumb over his own, the miracle of touch still too new and too sacred to be taken for granted by either of them.

There was love there. Love seeping through the cracks of their jagged foundation, gluing it all together somehow, irrespective of the fact that neither one of them had even so much as uttered that word to each other again since that horrible argument.

There was love there. Still. That much was true, despite all of the questions John still had about this man. The reverent silence between them was brimming with it - never ceasing to remind him that love was that one thing allowed to exist in direct defiance of everything else.

 

Love.

 

The one thing that prevailed independent of any and all logic or reason - completely devoid of the intrinsic human need for understanding or sense.

 

Love.

God damn it.

Love was truly fucking absurd.

 

“Is it another college?” John asked, deciding not to say the L word aloud.

“What’s that?”

“Your interview,” he clarified.

“Oh. No, uh…” James readjusted in his seat. “A group home actually.”

“A group home?”

James nodded. “Transitional housing.”

Something in John’s stomach dropped right then, but he shook off the flash of memories as quickly as it’d come. “Addicts?”

“I’m sure that’s a part of it. But, I wouldn’t be treating that aspect of people, per se. The job mostly calls for a focus on mental illness in the homeless.”

“James, that’s”--John lifted both brows, shook his head--“that’s highly fucking commendable work, love. But--”

“I know what you’re thinking, and I’ll be fine.”

“Do you _know_ what those places are like?”

“I’ve come in contact a time or two, yes. They are… admittedly dark.”

“Dark? James, they’re fucking soul-crushing,” John warned. He leveled a look at him that made James return a look that was equally as protective. “I’ve chosen concrete over the beds in those places more times than I care to count.”

Then it was James’ turn to squeeze John’s hand, but the gesture did nothing to reassure him. “I know that you’ve had experiences which warrant your concern. Experiences I will never come to understand. And I respect your perspective...”

“But?”

“ _But_ …” James took a breath, his eyes growing unfocused as he searched somewhere just over John's left shoulder for the words. “I want to do something that amounts to more than just psychobabble and textbooks,” he confessed. “Perhaps it _is_ extremely idealistic of me, but… I want to leave a mark on this world that can’t be reduced to an intelligence quotient or some bullshit standard of academic achievement. I want to be remembered as - not just as this - this self-centered, angry, self-destructive, elitist prick. I don’t want that to be my story in the end.”

John fought not to let the feeling of dismissiveness creep into the expression on his face. “Why are you’re speaking as if you’re going to die tomorrow?”

“I might. _You_ might. Does one ever really know?”

“Well, that’s awfully cynical.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true. You know that. Your elbow’s resting on _The Myth of Sisyphus_ as we speak.”

“James…” John fumbled for the right words to get through to him, glancing down at the book beneath his outstretched arm. “I understand all of that, but--”

“Do you?”

“I do. I really - look, this band is _my_ mark. I get it. I know what it feels like to want to be a part of something that’s bigger than yourself. It gives you a reason to keep going in a world that seems to only know how to give us reasons to quit. It’s just that…” John paused, taking a moment to collect his racing thoughts. “ _I'm_ the reason that you lost your job. And I'd hate it if--”

“You’re not the reason that I lost my job.”

“Love, that’s rubbish and you know it.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Just - I don’t want to see you go down a path that will only lead you into more depression and more drinking and--”

“John, my issues existed long before you,” James made clear. “You didn’t cause them. You didn’t somehow exacerbate them. And I’m dealing with them, with or without your influence. It’s just like you said, you don’t have the tools to fix me. And even if you did, I don’t need a caretaker.”

“I know you don’t. I wasn’t implying - I’m simply saying that--”

“Listen, I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t up for discussion.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s something that I need to do. For myself. A personal decision that, while you may understand, does not require your understanding.”

That stung. John bit his lip to keep from reacting, tried to mentally redraw the lines of those boundaries which he almost always missed.

“Alright,” he nodded.

Healing was a highly personal affair. Anyone who’d ever had someone else try to fix them before could’ve attested to that. So no matter how much John may have wanted to be a part of that process with James, he knew that his help, his concern, his dedication to him could only go so far. He had to respect his decision, regardless of the possible dangers foreseen.

It was what he himself had encouraged in James all those months ago upon that rooftop, upon the bones of John’s own past revisited, and in the rays of that beautifully setting sun. John had told James to confront those demons head on. He couldn’t now, in good conscience, seek to deliver James from his very own reckoning, even if the idea of it did make him feel more than slightly nauseated.

“Speaking of the band,” James started, “that magazine article comes out today, doesn't it?”

“You - You remember that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know. I guess I…” John frowned. “I didn’t think you would.” Because he wasn’t particularly used to anyone paying such close attention to him. At least, not in any kind of way that wasn’t mutually beneficial.

“I do actually listen when you speak, John.”

“I know you do.”

“In fact”--James pulled his hand away--“I have something for you.”

“What?” John sat back as James rose from his seat. He glanced over his shoulder, brows crinkled in mystery. “Fuck, James,” he called out. “You know I don’t like surprises, yeah?”

With no response, James disappeared into the apartment, prompting John to let out an anxious sigh and take a few more sips of coffee. And this, this would have been the most perfect time for a fucking cigarette.

John stared down at the book in front of him, not bothering to read so much as taking note of the way that the shadows of leafy tree branches danced across the pages. The wind played at their edges, fluttering like the unforgiving butterflies in his stomach. A moment later, the soft plop of glossed pages hitting the glass tabletop redirected his attention. John looked over, silent, and fairly perplexed as James sat down across from him once more.

“I bought a subscription as soon as you told me about it,” James explained. “I figured--”

“You bought an entire subscription to a magazine about music that you don’t even like?” John asked before looking up.

“I wanted it mailed to me. That way my name would be on the first copy that you’ll ever autograph.”

And it wasn’t right for his expression to be as soft as it was - all caring and indulgent and supportive like that. John huffed at the permanent marker being held out to him next. “You’re serious?”

“Of course I am,” was the verbal response, but the confusion written on James’ face spoke even louder then. “Why do you always think--”

“I’m sorry,” John said quickly. “I’m just not - I don’t”--He sighed and shut his eyes, regrouping--”I’m sorry.”

He shook his head as James’ hand found his again, the sensation of warm skin dulling the chill of anxiety.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” said James. “Christ, _I_ should be the one apologizing--”

“No...”

“I thought it would be encouraging. I wasn’t thinking about how - _overwhelming_ this must all be for you. And here I am shoving a magazine at you and asking for your autograph.”

John stared down at the marker, then over at the magazine, wordless. He knew that James wasn’t like all the rest, knew that this man had long since met those places within him that ran far deeper than those revealed on any stage, or on any brightly colored page - but still this biting worry. James was the only one left who still _saw_ him. Past the layers of protection which made up his expertly crafted persona. James validated _John._ Not Silver. Hell, if John could’ve managed to keep James completely separate from Silver altogether they both might’ve actually been in danger of making whatever the fuck this was between them work. The last thing either of them needed was James getting sucked into all of the hype, too.

John thumbed at the corners of the magazine’s pages, a cluster of them containing a fate for which he was only just now realizing himself unprepared.

“Did you read it?” he asked, his throat suddenly dry. He glanced at his coffee, but thought twice of letting go of James’ hand in order to reach for it.

“Of course not. I thought - Well, I’d _intended_ for us to read it together. But I see now that that’s something you’d probably want to share with the rest of the band.”

John did reach for the coffee this time. “That’s the plan,” he said before taking a sip. “Jack’s already texted me twice this morning to make sure that I don’t forget.”

James sat back in his chair, a small huff of amusement falling from him as he fiddled with the marker. “He does seem to be overbearingly on top of things,” he pointed out. “Dare I say, annoyingly so.”

“You have no fucking idea. D’you know what he told me after our premiere? That I had to stop smoking because it was making my voice too rough. Too rough for a punk rock band, mate? Really?”

Face settling into a partial frown, James said, “You sounded fine to me. But then, I’m probably not the best judge of the genre. And I hadn’t really expected to see you singing either.”

“It wasn’t planned,” John explained, breaking eye contact.

“I’m aware. I happened to be on the balcony with Jack when the audience yelled for that encore. But you”--He shook his head--“you did beautifully.”

John rubbed his face, the entirety of that blasted ordeal rushing back to him. The chant of the crowd. The panic in Anne’s eyes. The command in Jack’s voice telling him that he had to do _the song_ . _That_ fucking song. “I was terrified,” he said softly. “And then I saw you standing in the audience… just _watching_ me as if--”

Silence stretched on for a moment, just long enough for John to remember the sinking feeling in his stomach and the pounding of his heart. “I felt so goddamn exposed. I had to fight not to walk off the stage, mid-song.”

“You didn’t seem terrified,” James said, probably trying to sound comforting but managing to seem more apologetic than anything else. “That night - angry, yes. But not terrified.”

“No...” John shook his head, letting his hand open in his lap and peering into his palm, as if the explanation somehow lay within those lines and callouses. “I wouldn't," he said, tracing the creases with his thumb. "I’ve had decades of practice.”

He didn’t look up at the end of his sentence, but could feel James’ eyes on him nonetheless. “And now they want me to be the lead singer,” he confided next. “We’ve recorded an entire fucking album already, and they think they can just swap Anne’s voice for mine as if it’s even remotely the same.”

Thinking his fear apparent, thoughts immediately supplied him with ways in which he could mask it. It was automatic. Learned and practiced and perfected to the point where John wouldn’t have noticed it with anybody else. He was so used to seeing himself through the eyes of whomever was looking at him, becoming that human Rorschach which knew just how to morph into whatever his target desired. But with James it was different. It was always different. It was frighteningly and overwhelmingly fucking different.

With James, John’s brain simply did not work the same - it didn’t need to. James didn’t trigger the same blindingly defensive responses. James didn’t make John feel the need to protect himself or hide. So when his natural defenses reared their ugly heads they’d always felt sorely out of place. And that was probably the scariest part of all of it: to show himself to another, mangled and gnarled, beaten and broken, and know that he was being reflected right back as nothing more or less than beautifully human.

Any judgment of him would then become solely his own and unable to be deflected.

“You don’t have to,” James murmured, seeping through the silence.

John peered up at him, still dizzied by his own thoughts. “What?”

“You don’t have to be the lead singer.”

“What?”

James leaned forward, somehow managing to soften those sharp features even further. He stared at John for a moment, then decided to say, “I read the press release last week. And the album announcement.”

John felt himself fidget - what he was sure was visibly - cupping a hand over his mouth and trying his best to seem unaffected despite it.

“Yeah?”

“Look, I know you’re not keen on sharing this part of your life with me,” he continued, “and to that end, I do my best not to pry, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not concerned. I can see the pressure that you’re under. And maybe no one with a vested interest will say it, so I will: John, you do not have to lead this band."

The sun was unfair in its lighting of him. The wind unforgiving in how it carried his tone. John looked back across the table at James, feeling completely disarmed by everything staring back. Permission to fall. Permission to fail. Permission to be nothing more than _John_ , and be loved for it all the same.

“Of course I have to,” he said anyway, though the words fought to be spoken. “All of this is on my shoulders now, innit? Being held together by my own two hands. _Everyone_ is counting on me, and honestly--” He interrupted himself with a scoff. “Where else would I wake up in the morning and matter?”

At that, James reached across the table again, taking John’s hand between both of his own. “Here,” he whispered, eyes focused and true. “You’d matter here.”

  
  
**oo**

 

A new rug and the unmistakable scent of sage greeted John as he shut the door behind himself. He took a few cautious steps forward, listening for voices but coming up empty. A few more steps revealed Jack in his living room, waving a smoldering bundle of herbs around in slow and steady arcs.

John watched for a moment, trying to make sense of the spectacle before making his presence known. “What the fuck are you doing, Jack?”

Turning abruptly, Jack grabbed his chest. “Christ, John.” He walked over and began encircling John in smoke. “Remind me to put a fucking bell on you.”

John batted smoke out of his face, asking, “Is there a reason why you’re trying to suffocate me?”

“I’m not trying to suff--” Jack cut himself off with a frown and a sigh, stopping in front of John in order to level a look of disappointment at him. “I’m _smudging_ ,” he explained. “You know, cleansing my home of negative energy?”

“Smudging.”

“Yes, smudging,” Jack reaffirmed, continuing the ritual. “It’s been scientifically proven to clear the air of negative ions and stagnant energy.”

“Is that right?”

“Quite.” Jack wrapped a circle of smoke around John once more before continuing onto the rest of the room. “I’ll have you know that my great grandmother was a high ranking member of the Brayakooloong clan in the Gunaikurnai Nation.”

“Was she?” John asked, trying his best to mask his skeptical tone as Jack made a mockery of what was probably a highly sacred practice.

“Indeed. Which, as you may well have deduced by now, makes me one eighth Aboriginal.”

“I see.”

At that, Jack turned and stared, looking rather insulted to find what John was now sure was an inability to hide said skepticism. “If you’re going to insist on being negative, I’ll thank you to wait outside with the rest of the nonbelievers and allow me to cleanse my surroundings in peace.”

John tossed his hands up above his shoulders in mock surrender, knowing from experience that arguing with Jack about such things was an exercise in futility. He saw himself out through the sliding glass doors.

“He still smudging?” Anne asked, barely bothering to look up from the spread of cards in her hand.  

It was muggy in the back yard; not quite humid but well on its way. And the smell of rain on hot asphalt was a stark contrast to the herbs which he’d been overtaken with just moments before. John nodded and replied, “He said his great grandmother was a--”

“A high ranking member of the Brayakooloong clan in the Gunaikurnai Nation,” Anne and Charles said in unison, both of them drawling the words out like in a cartoon.

“Oh,” said John, beginning to draw his hair into a messy bun in a bungling attempt to combat the heat. “So this _isn’t_ new.”

“He only does it when he’s nervous,” Charles supplied, tossing a five of clubs onto the discard pile then ashing his cigarette. He moved his foot off of the seat beside him so that John could sit. “Fucking hipster bullshit.”

“Ay,” Anne snarled, kicking Charles’ chair. “S’not _hipster bullshit._ Max does it too.”

“Max actually has African lineage,” said Charles. “Jack is just playing at this - same as he does with his crystals and all that other nonsense.” He pressed his dwindled cigarette down into the ashtray. “New age hipster bullshit,” he mumbled.

Anne tossed an eight of diamonds onto the table. “But you still love ‘im, so,” she reminded, “might’s well quit yapping.”

“So do you,” Charles said gruffly. “The fuck’s that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I ain't the one out here talking shite about 'im, am I?”

“May I--” John interjected, pointing at Charles’ pack of cigarettes. He’d been itching for one all morning, but still found himself downplaying the need and his own gratitude when Charles nodded. “So where is it?” he asked next, reaching for the pack.

“He has it somewhere in ‘is room,” Anne answered. “Wants to perform some - abundance ritual or whatever the fuck before we all read it.”

“Won’t change the words on the page,” Charles grumbled.

Mostly focused on the blessed menthol finally melting into his lungs and throat, John was blissfully distracted, but not so detached that he didn’t understand exactly what was happening. Charles was nervous about the magazine writeup, same as the rest of them. But he’d never let on willingly. Same as the rest of them. Instead, he’d focus all of that hostile energy into sheer annoyance. That was his thing. And they all had their respective _things_.

Anne’s was that silent stare and a stiffness in her jaw. John glanced at her to confirm, and sure enough there she sat, eyes burning holes into her cards and jaw clenched so tightly that her top lip had almost disappeared completely.

That was until she said, “So where the fuck were you this weekend?”

“Around,” John said after a beat.

“Must be nice,” she mumbled.

“Sorry?”

“She’s upset about the studio,” Charles explained.

“Mouth works just fine, Chaz, thanks. Surely don’t need you putting words into it.”

“Better than you sitting there sulking like a goddamn five year old,” Charles said from behind a freshly lit cigarette.

Anne bit her bottom lip, then turned her sharp glare on John. “We waited for two hours.”

“Shit,” John exhaled, his busy weekend with James having made it so that the studio had completely slipped his mind. “I’m sorry. I--”

“Forgot,” Anne finished for him. “We know.” She tossed another card onto the table with a shake of her head. “God forbid you ever actually answered your flamin’ phone.”

It hadn't felt right around her since Jack had broken the news. John could feel the resentment oozing from her like hot black tar waiting to swallow him whole. No matter how civil she was, no matter how willing she’d seemed to keep up the appearance, Anne had never been any good at faking anything. And once upon a time that would've been John's favorite thing about her, but right now all it was doing was reminding him of his utter fucking betrayal.

How could he have agreed to this?

“Mind if I nick an aspirin?” he asked no one in particular.

“Should be some in the bathroom,” came Charles’ answer. “Why? She giving you a headache too?”

“Fuck off.”

“No, I just…” John swallowed, felt his hands beginning to tingle as he lifted his cigarette to his lips. “The rain makes my leg...” he trailed off.

When he’d left James’ house, he’d thought about resupplying. Three days without Percs or his PTSD meds had done a number on him that he hadn’t quite understood until he was on the train and well out of the afterglow of loving hands and careful words. But he’d figured he could go without for a little longer - just to see. Maybe he didn’t _need_ them. Maybe he was just as strong alone as he was whenever he was right beside James.

So he hadn’t gone home. He hadn’t made that call to that person about those things. Instead, he’d gone straight to Jack’s and braved the next leg of the life hurdling toward him with a sobriety that felt frighteningly foreign, but earned; necessary even.

Where did aspirin come into play? Well, he’d read a claim in a science journal years ago that aspirin helped with existential anxiety. It’d seemed far fetched at the time, but like with most of life’s absurdities he’d never forgotten it. So, John finished his cigarette, still the very picture of togetherness, then _calmly_ headed back inside to test that particular theory. Because now was certainly as good a fucking time as any.

Jack was sitting in the middle of the living room now, cross legged with his hands resting lightly against his knees. An incense burned on a nearby table, cloaking the room in small swirls of jasmine scented smoke. Or at least that was what the box sitting beside the long slender stick had read. John had likened the scent more to that of burnt sugar, but Jack’s eyes were closed and his lips were moving, so he thought it best not to bother him with any more patronising questions.

He made his way to the bathroom as quietly as possible, found the aspirin in the medicine chest and popped three. They could all say what they wanted about Jack, but the man found his peace however he could. And as John ducked his head beneath the running faucet, gulping down his pills and trying to find some semblance of his own elusive peace, he understood that he was in no position to judge Jack or anyone else for however they found light within the darkness of their unknowns.

He stood up and studied himself in the mirror for a moment, wondering just what it was skulking around his own depths that was so goddamn paralysing. It couldn’t have been so simple as failure. John had failed too many times to count. He’d become accustomed to the sting of it - that jagged grip of familiarity which somehow sutured his wounds whilst simultaneously ripping him apart. Maybe this… what if this thing tormenting him was not so simple as the fear of falling short? What if what it really was, was the fear of success?

There were towels hanging from a rod on the wall. Embroidered and soft looking, but he couldn’t bring himself to ruin them with the beads of sweat beginning to form over his brow now. John sat on the edge of the tub and wiped his face with his shirt instead.

This used to be all he’d ever wanted. A year ago, he would have jumped at the chance to lead this band right into the hearts and minds of punk fans all over the world. But as the days dragged on and the passion withered, something inside him had shifted. And he didn’t know what or where or how to force whatever it was back into place. About all he knew was that he didn’t like his life feeling this out of his own control; this _random_. And the last time he’d felt like this…

He gripped the ledge of the tub, fighting a lump in his throat as his lungs wrung themselves free of what little air they’d had left. Music had been fun once. Music had been his outlet, his therapy, his personal drug of choice. But this Silver shadow was gaining on him now, and it was beginning to feel suffocating.

John didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s successes or failures. He didn’t want to travel 10 months out of the year, performing the same songs over and over, sleeping in hotel rooms, going out with a disguise, and never being able to trust that anyone could love him for him again. He just wanted to play his fucking guitar. He just wanted to strike at the chords until his fingers bled and his dread subsided and he was too exhausted to feel anything other than his own beating heart and that subtle ringing in his ears. He just wanted it to mean something again. Not work. Not money. Not guilt. Not fame. Not _this._

It was starting; building fast. A wave of ice water about to crest. He could feel it creeping into his neck and his shoulders - prickles of fire crawling like spider legs down each and every point of his spine. His hands were stinging now. But he’d grown used to this panic, used to the voice that had always given him those same two options: run away, or drag a sharper edge across his flesh in search of some higher plane of relief.

So, all alone in the dim light of that small windowed bathroom and capable of neither, John gave way to a third choice: he stayed. He weathered it. He didn’t pick at the old cigarette burn on his thigh, or the stripes of ill-fated alleviation cut into grim decorations along his hip. Instead, he wrung his hands until he wasn’t sure if he could feel them anymore, and he gave himself the permission to cry - because that voice, violent as it was, would always remain the only constant in this terrifying world. It was the only reliable thing he’d ever known. And no amount of success or love or money was ever going to change that, true. But how he _dealt_ with that voice, that was what would make all of the difference.

Convinced he was in the thick of it now, John took care to muffle himself in the sleeve of his shirt, squeezing drops from his eyes and trembling as if he could physically push it all away. It was only temporary, as were all things in life. Temporary pain. Temporary guilt. Temporary shame. Temporary fear. He just had to get through it. He just had to stop being a fucking coward. He’d get through it.

“We’re all waiting on you, John,” came the voice on the other end of the knock at the door. “As fucking usual,” it said a bit softer.

John took the deepest breath he’d taken all day. “Yeah,” he called back, wiping his face. “Be right out.”

He stood, slowly, his chest still tight and his hands still numb, but he wasn’t dizzy and he wasn’t manic so he knew that he could hide his symptoms well enough to be able to get through this meeting. And with that, he gave himself a quick once over then made to join the others in the living room.

A swath of red and a tattooed shoulder peaked in as he cracked open the door. John lowered his head and decided not to make eye contact as he tried to pass, but Anne was having none of it.

“Fuck’s your problem?” she interrogated.

John shook his head. “I’m fine.”

“And I'm Marie Antoi-fucking-nette,” she said, stretching an arm across the doorjamb and blocking his path. John could feel her eyes on him but he didn’t meet them.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Anne huffed, planting her hand against his chest and pushing him back into the bathroom. She shut the door behind herself. “Say what the fuck you have to say.”

Her boots were old, not falling apart kind of old, but worn in and comfortable looking - or at least as comfortable as Doc Martens were ever allowed to be. He’d bought them for her years ago when he’d bought the black pair he was currently wearing, and as he stared at both sets and the inches of tiled floor between them, John remembered how close Anne and he had once been. Now, it felt only as if miles of animosity existed between them.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say, heaviness making it harder and harder to lift his head. “I never wanted this to--”

“Are you fucking serious?” She shifted around him. “Piss on your goddamn _sorry_.”

The lid to the toilet clanged, forcing John to twitch in surprise. He looked over his shoulder to see Anne unzipping her jeans.

“Don’t you dare,” she demanded, as if John’s natural instinct to reach for the doorknob was unconscionable. So he stared at the back of the door, confused. “I don’t know what the fuck’s going on with you - no one does - but we’re all right fucking tired of it.”

The anxiety attack John was thwarting made him feel as if the walls of the bathroom were closing in on him, but the sound of urine hitting toilet water was enough to make an already uncomfortable situation downright unbearable. “Do we really have to do this now? While you’re…”

“Oh, I’m sorry. When’s a more convenient time for you, ay? When you’re not answering your phone? When you’re skipping out on recording sessions? When you’re high or drunk or whatever the fuck?”

John nodded, his eyes still glued to the door as the sound of tearing toilet paper slit through the silence. He deserved that. “I know you’re angry with me--”

“God, that fucking word.” Anne flushed the toilet. “If you knew how many times I’ve had to hear that fucking word this week.”

A moment, the sound of running water, then silence. John took a breath and let it out slow, unsure of what he was supposed to be doing. He was never any good at managing anyone’s expectations of him, not even when he actually tried.

“Why’d you stop going to those meetings? The one’s with Max.”

He turned toward Anne’s voice, his forehead bunched into bewildered wrinkles but the rest of him too tired to protest. “They weren’t helping,” he said, finally looking up at her.

“Well they sure as shite weren’t hurting.”

“Maybe. But I _sure as shit_ have better things to do with my time.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Anne crossed her arms and waited, but John realised then that he hadn’t any real answer to that question. He’d been wandering aimlessly for weeks - barely eating, barely sleeping - so caught up in the maze of his own existence that he’d lost all sense of priority and order. He’d fought with Jack, then with James over much of the same, so it didn’t really surprise him that Anne must’ve noticed it too. “Exactly,” she stressed, marking John's silence. “Used to be that you’d use the band as your excuse. Now you can’t even make that one stick.”

Instinctively, he felt defensive. “I didn’t fucking ask for this.”

“For what?”

“Any of it. I don’t - I don’t _want_ any of it.”

“Then stop wasting everyone’s time!” she insisted. “Bleedin’ Christ! You got the whole fucking world by the short and curlies and you’re too afraid to get after it! So what? You’re gonna sabotage the rest of us? Bring us all down with you, is that it?”

“No.”

“‘Cause me an’ Jack - we ain't gonna go hunting for you in that shitehole again, alright? We’re gonna leave you right there to fucking rot next time. If you’re gonna be a coward then be a bloody coward on someone else’s time.”

“I don't need this,” John said, turning for the door.

“No, this is _exactly_ what the fuck you need, boyo. But right - go on. Run,” Anne antagonised. “Run like you always do.”

“What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Me?”

“Should I just fucking quit? Would that make you all happy?”

“Oi, don't fucking flat’r yourself, alright?”

“Then what? What the fuck do you--”

“You still think this is about me?” Anne laughed. “Think I’ve got my dander up about being replaced?”

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

Anne smiled, but the spectacle was anything but endearing. “You got’ya head so far up your own arse you can't even see what the fuck is happening, can you?”

John blinked at her, lost.

Anne shook her head, spinning away from him and taking a seat atop the lid of the toilet with a gentle sigh. “You don’t deserve him as a friend,” she muttured.

His ego wanted to push back a bit at that one but he kept that particular struggle to himself for the time being, burying it under layers of tension and pressure creeping into the pit of his gut. “I don’t understand,” he tried. “I’m not doing any of this to hurt him.”

“None of us ever do,” she returned halfheartedly. “I di’nt intend to hurt’m when I got together with Max. Charles doesn’t intend to hurt’m when he’s taking the piss out of ‘im. Max doesn’t intend to hurt’m when she tries to explain things about me that I ain’t got the words for. And you’re not acting the maggot now ‘cause you’re intentionally trying to hurt Jack. I know that, but that - that don’t excuse any of it. ”

“I’m not making excuses. I know I’m fucking up, bruv. I just don’t--”

“Y’know, I’ve been wondering just what the fuck it is about you,” Anne said, thumbing her nose. “Something about you - aside from all this band business - something about you’s been making me wanna knock your pan in for weeks.” She bit her lip and nodded. “And I di’nt know why til you missed the studio. Realised it when I looked over and saw Jack’s face. I ain’t seen his face like that since…”

Her jaw went stiff again.

“Anne…”

“When someone gives you a life, John, it ain't truly your own,” she said, looking up at him with her eyes ablaze. “You owe some part of it back.”

And suddenly, John's heart just wasn’t sitting right in his chest. It was too heavy, too lopsided and full of things he didn’t quite know how to explain.

He could never repay Jack for what he’d done for him. How did one pay back a life? It was just too much. Too much too fast and John found himself wishing that life would come at him just a little bit slower for a moment. He wished it was just a little less loud, less demanding, less frequent. Breathing felt like a chore; feeling, a task he wanted to trade in for one that required much less energy. Numbness. Even more numbness now - fighting for its right among all the other sensations currently overwhelming him.

He felt out of control. Like life had been launched at him with no ability to dodge it. He’d been holding this world together with his own two hands for so long. But he’d never asked for it. Christ, maybe Jack _should_ have left him there to die. Because he was stumbling now. He had lost his grip. He had lost his nerve.

He had lost himself.

“Jack believes in you,” Anne shared, her voice raspy and hushed. “Has this whole vision - this entire fucking endeavor, his reputation, his money, his goddamn sense of purpose. S’all wrapped up in this belief in us… in _you_.”

“And, God,” she added, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands together as if she were pleading. “I want so fucking badly t’pretend that I don't understand it. You’ve done fuck all but drive me to drink since the moment you put that bass in my hands… but _fuck_ , John. I ain't mad at’ya, mate. I’m… I'm disappointed. ‘Cause we all seen what you're capable of. All of us.” She paused to look at him. “‘Cept you.”

John shut his eyes, trying to breathe deeper than his lungs would dare allow. His back slid down the length of door until the floor came up under him. “I don’t know what to do, Anney,” he admitted, anxiety swelling up into bitten back tears. “I’m - I can’t be what everyone else wants me to be.”

“No one’s asking you to be anything other than who the fuck you already are,” she said. “S’not anyone else’s fault that you don’t seem to know who the fuck that even is.”

Harsh words. But somehow, deep down in the darkest of somewheres, John knew that the softest parts of him had needed to hear them. Luckily, they were coming from someone who knew a thing or two about finding themselves. John had watched Anne bloom in her own time, so it was only right that she’d be the one able to find the roses beneath his own cypresses too.

John strained against the rush of his panic, pulling his knees into his chest. But Anne was there immediately, her presence now an insistent prickle against what John could feel of his leg.

“I been seeing someone,” she said matter-of-factly. “A therapist.”

“What?”

“And if you tell anyone I’ll fucking--” She cut herself off. “Some blonde cunt. Tells me I ‘ave - _dysthymia_ or some shite.”

John wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. He took a shallow breath. “What the fuck is that?”

“Some kind of depression. High functioning or whatever. Says it’s the reason I’m always ang--” She paused, sifting through her thoughts for a better word. “Surly,” she finished. “Says women like me get dismissed as being crazy or violent or unfriendly, when really we’re just fucking depressed. But since we ain't always blubbering or stuck in our beds for weeks…”

Anne actually offering up parts of herself? Willingly? And to a complete stranger? John wondered if she could read the terror on his face despite his best efforts to stifle it. This was, after all, the same woman who had put a knife to Max’s throat when she’d tried to comfort her. And it was precisely that level of distrust in other’s motives that’d made John and Anne as thick as thieves in the first place.

They’d also felt the same about all of that hokey shit: meditation, prayer, therapy. They didn’t judge, but there existed this unspoken understanding between them that those things were reserved for those people who hadn’t yet learned to accept the monstrous indifference of the world. Anne and John had recognised each other in the way that they’d both known how to suffer that particular truth in silence. But this admission… Christ. John couldn’t fight the feeling. Was everyone outgrowing him?

“I think you should see someone, Johnny.”

“Oh, fuck…” John hit the back of his head against the door. “No. No… fuck… Not you too.”

“S’not as bad as you think it is. Trust me.”

“I can’t…”

“Why not?”

“Because there isn’t a person in the world,” John swore, peering into Anne’s eyes and pointing at his own temple with fingers intentionally shaped like a gun, “that can possibly make it even halfway through this twisted fucking fantasy.”

Anne nodded, her brows finally betraying some semblance of sympathy. “Ain't that boyfriend of yours a psychiatrist?” she asked softly.

“No. I mean, he’s not--” John stammered. “He’s a psychologist, yeah, but--”

“Then?”

“Then what?”

“Seems like a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”

“You… you don’t even believe in signs,” he reminded.

“Maybe I do,” Anne shrugged. “Now.”

John couldn’t hold back his bewilderment. “Who the fuck even are you?” he asked.

Anne returned a smile; a genuine one this time. “Just a poor lit’l redheaded fuck from Kinsale looking to make some sense of the world,” she answered. “Same as you, ya curly fuck.”

She rose and extended her hand downward. John looked up at it for a second before reaching for it, then pulled himself from the floor.

“So I’ll tell Max to save a seat for you this Wednesday, yeah?”

He raked a hand through his hair. Anne squinted her eyes.

“Johnny…”

“Alright,” he caved with a sigh. “Alright, Jesus. You sound far too much like my mum when you call me that.”

“Good,” Anne said to him, both hands coming to rest on either side of his shoulders like two little reassuring pauldrons. “Not the mum part, but, y’know.”

“Christ. You’re not gonna hug me are you?”

“Oh, piss off,” Anne scoffed, rolling her eyes and pulling open the door.

  
  
  
**oo**

 

_“If Punks are currently being brushed off by “official sources” as a speedily-becoming-extinct species, why then is it damn near impossible to find a comfortable place to stand on this blisteringly humid Saturday night in order to watch The Gallows rising victorious before a capacity crowd? The 300 strong line, which straggled across two blocks outside of London’s Allardyce Club on Oxford Street, waiting for the doors to open, was indisputable evidence that a new decade in rock is about to begin.”_

 

**oo**

 

When he was nearly fifteen, John had had his first taste of a woman. She was fair skinned and dull for all intents and purposes; the kind of woman the world told a young man from a tender age that he should’ve found attractive. Her hair was long and pin straight with a part down the middle, and hung in jet black curtains on either side of her breasts.

“Do you like that?” she asked, bouncing in John's lap.

Idelle’s tits were much larger than those of the woman who’d taken his virginity, but she reminded John of her nonetheless, of a simpler time when sexuality was a one way street with no side allies or unpaved roads. When he loved - well maybe not loved but certainly lusted over women exclusively. When they'd throw themselves at him, tell him he was gorgeous, sexy, strong, and still full of all the possibilities that youthful hope and vigor afforded a person. When he still had both legs, and didn't care much for whatever role dignity played in the consumption of his desires. A time when he simply did not have to _think_ so fucking much.

“Fuck,” he gasped, running his hands up the curve of Idelle's back and pressing his lips against any piece of skin he could find. “God, yes.”

After Madi, after the disaster that was his complete and utter failure as a boyfriend, John found numbness to be the best way to cope with what he’d discovered was a ridiculously unfair world. (A world that would gift him all of these connections to people but none of the tools necessary to maintain them.) It hadn't mattered. Not in any true way. Not in any way that he would allow to stick. None of it mattered, really. Not if he told himself that it was all fleeting and temporary anyway. This body. These feelings. This fear. This love. This desperate attempt at finding this place of comfort with blinding uncertainty. This existential dread. This desperate and poor excuse for reclaiming the only thing he was truly capable of being time and time again: selfish.

John dug his nails into the crests of soft skin being offered so generously to him. He'd known Idelle for years, and she understood the parts of him that’d barely felt allowed into the light anymore. The suffocating weight of responsibility, of expectations, of judgment, they all melted away whenever he found himself inside of her. She wanted nothing from him besides a little attention every now and again, and in some weird way, that simplicity, that boundary etched into common ground almost made her feel like home.

“Harder,” Idelle panted against his hairline.

John bit into her neck and drove his hips forward and upward into waiting flesh.

Idelle giggled through her gasps. “Yes. Yes, there he is.”

John thrusted harder, wrapping his hands around her waist and forcing her down onto his cock until he was sure the vulgar slapping sound they were making could be heard by anyone with the unfortunate pleasure of walking by his apartment.

“God, Silver, please.”

“Please who?” John demanded. “Who!”

“ _Silver_ ,” cried Idelle, shutting her eyes as she took every inch of John's dick. “Silver,” she repeated, just the way John liked. “Silver. Silver. _Sil-verrrr_.”

“What do you want? You dirty little--what the fuck do you want?”

He asked, but he’d already known the answer. They'd done this enough for John to know exactly what Idelle wanted, and exactly the way she wanted it.

“Fuck,” Idelle whined. “Please.”

John reached up and smoothed his his hand over her neck, teasing her. “What do you want?” he asked again anyway, making her work for it. And work for it she did, grinding down on John with that voluptuous ass securely in his grip. “You want me to show you what I think of you?”

Idelle moaned her answer, moving her hips back and forth and burying her hands in John’s hair.

“You want me to tell you what a filthy little girl you are?”

“Fuck,” she whispered.

“You wanna know what nasty little sluts like you get?”

John reached up for a fistful of her lustrous hair, tugging just soft enough as to not hurt her, but just hard enough to tilt her head back and let her know that he meant business.

“You wanna get fucked, don’t you?”

“Yes… please…” Idelle whimpered, the sound she made next so high pitched that it cracked into nothing but silence.

“Like _that_?” John taunted as he pummeled her. “That’s how you like it. That’s how filthy whores like you take it, yeah?”

“Yes, daddy! Yes!”

“Yeah? Who’s my whore?”

Nothing actually came out when Idelle had opened her mouth to answer that time, so John flattened his palm against her throat, wrapped his fingers around her neck, and squeezed until she was digging her nails into him as her own silent form of acknowledgment.

“Oh, you’re not gonna come are you?” he teased, mouthing at her jaw. “So soon? I thought whores could handle a good fuck.”

He looked on as Idelle’s eyes rolled back, a look of pure bliss overshadowing the sudden tremble of her body.

“Come for me,” he demanded through clenched teeth. “Come for me like a good little slag.”

John let go of her throat right then, allowing for all of Idelle’s trapped breaths to tumble forth in gasp after gasp of ravenous pleasure. And he’d be lying if he’d said that this wasn’t his favorite part. He didn’t fuck Idelle to get off. He could get himself off; it wasn’t about that. He fucked Idelle because he loved to get lost in her screams, in her body, in her scent, in the way that she vibrated against him for that brief moment just before she was due to collapse. He relished it. The power. The control. The sense of accomplishment. The fact that he could choose to satisfy her, or starve something absolutely voracious out of her until she was begging for the former. 

Something about the soft folds of her skin, though. The envelope of warmth granted by her orgasm had always managed to put him over the edge whether he wanted it or not.They’d come together and then they’d laughed together - something else they’d never seemed to forget how to do.

Idelle collapsed beside John on the couch, taking a few breaths for herself before reaching over him to grab the joint and the lighter sitting on top of the end table.

“How much time do we have?” John asked, head back against the spine of the couch and staring up at the ceiling.

He listened to the flick of the lighter beside him, waited for the scent of weed to blossom before peeking over for Idelle’s answer.

“Prob'ly a half hour or so,” she said, passing the joint to him. “But junkers aren't exactly known for their promptness.”

John cupped his cock in his free hand, realizing he'd just spent his last available distraction. He took a puff and let his mind drift, which immediately turned out to be a terrible idea. He thought of the magazine article, the band, the NA meeting he was supposed to be at right now… then his mind was inevitably on James, and that was more than quite enough of that.

He wasn't avoiding him. Not really. It'd only been two days since they'd spoken, and, hell, he'd gone entire relationships with nothing more than a couple sleepovers a week. In retrospect, that was probably why none of them had ever been successful, but James wasn't his boyfriend, so that didn't apply. Whatever they were, it certainly did not warrant daily contact.

He'd call James. Eventually. No sense being clingy.

John passed the joint back and reached over for the glass of bourbon that’d been keeping him company before Idelle had arrived. It was his hope that alcohol would do a better job of getting some of that buzzing apprehension out of his system, but about all it had done was hit him with a reminder of that same toffee scent on the lips of one James Flint.

“I'm going to take a shower,” he said, pulling the cup away from his nose.

“Are you alright?” she asked as he stood.

John nodded, “Yeah,” and tugged his jeans back up around his waist. “Why?”

“I dunno,” Idelle shrugged. “You just seem… off. The degradation didn't pack the same punch as it normally does.”

“What?”

“I’m only saying - I meant, well, a few months ago you would have called me a… a fucking cum bucket or something; you would’ve bit into me until I bled.” She’d said it so casually, as if she’d grown used to it long ago, but John felt himself trying to hide the grimace that came with his own reflection anyway. “Today,” she continued after a long drag, trying not to exhale as she spoke, “the best you’ve got is barely pulling my hair and calling me a slag.”

“Well, you seemed to enjoy the choking,” John reminded.

“Oh, I always enjoy the choking, Silver. That’s never a problem. You’ve got really big hands.”

John bit back a grin. “I'm just tired,” he said after a moment, then, rounding the couch for that shower, “I - it’s been a long fucking week.”

Idelle chuckled through her next weed-laced exhale. “Oh, come off it. It’s only Wednesday, and I’ve seen you tired. This shit is something else entirely.”

John paused in the doorway to his bedroom. “And what exactly do you think _this shit_ is?” he asked.

“A cry for help,” she answered, squinting as she took her next toke. “Ever since you started seeing that man--”

“Christ, Del. You don’t even know him.”

“No, but I know _you_.”

John rolled his eyes as Idelle ashed her joint. “You don’t know shit.”

“Alls I’m saying is that you’ve changed. Not saying whether it’s good or bad, just… noticeable.”

“Why? Because I didn't degrade you well enough?”

“Well, there’s that, yeah. I certainly don't come to you for _regular_ sex,” she reminded, climbing up onto her knees and resting her forearms along the back of the couch. “I come to you for all the fucked up shit that I can't seem to get anyone else to do to me - not without expressed written consent and a shit ton of judgment apparently.” She rolled her eyes in annoyance.

“I--” John fought a frown. “Thank you?”

Idelle smirked. “You’re… softer somehow,” she went on hazily. “Like, you’re losing your edge.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I’m not sure. It’s like… you _care._ ”

“I _care_?”

Idelle nodded.

And of fucking course John cared. John had always fucking cared.

“I have always fucking cared,” he said, for good measure.

“Yeah, but, like… you, like, _care_ care. Like, d’you know what I mean?” Like, you _care_ care.”

John wanted to ask for clarification but ultimately settled on, “What the fuck kind of marijuana is that?”

Idelle looked down at the joint. “I dunno. Some purple something-or-other.”

Turning in the doorway, John laughed to himself. “Be careful with that stuff,” he said over his shoulder, and made his way to the shower.

 

 

Once again, or dare he say _as per usual_ , John Silver had no fucking idea what the hell he was doing. He sat on the bed, his hair dripping over his chest as he stared at his false leg for a moment before committing to putting it on again.

Through the door he could hear people in his apartment, people laughing and chatting and ready to provide the distractions that were requested of them. And none of those people had ever seen John as anything less than bipedal. Not that he cared about that kind of thing. He didn’t. He _didn’t._ These people were just a bunch of junkies with respectable day jobs, really. The kind of people who would have judged someone like him in any other life had John not been making somewhat of a recognisable name for himself in this one. They weren’t his friends. Not like Jack and Anne and Max were. He didn’t care what they thought about him - but today, perhaps today was not the best day for their opinions of him to change.

A faint knock at the door. “Silver? It’s me,” came the soft voice on the other side. “Can I come in?”

John quickly tucked his shorter leg under his longer one, tugging at the towel a bit and covering any visible openings. “Yeah.”

Idelle entered and shut the door behind herself. She looked different with clothes on. Not that seeing her dressed was a rare sight or anything, but in her ratty old Misfits shirt and her worn down jeans one could barely make out the gorgeous body hidden beneath. John felt a miniscule sense of pride for his covert knowledge of it.

Without even looking up, Idelle walked over to John and knelt down in front of him. “Alright,” she started, “we’ve got some Ozzy’s and some Cola.” She placed a baggie of pills on his towel, just over his left knee, and another slightly larger bag of whitish powder on top of his right one.

“There’s weed also, of course,” she said, finally glancing up at him. “Choose your fighter.”

Dropping his gaze to his towel, John examined the oxy first, subconsciously knowing just how much his body had needed it. It’d been days since he’d been pain free and just over a week since he’d blown through his Percocet script. _Take the pill_ , he thought - _the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t_ \- but instead he asked, “What’s that?”

“Coke,” Idelle answered matter-of-factly, following John’s eyes. “Why?”

“That’s not coke.”

Confusion wrinkled her normally seamless face. “Of course it is.

“No,” John shook his head, “it isn’t.”

“Then…”

He didn't know how he knew. John just… _knew._

He picked up the baggy and opened it, licked the tip of his finger and stuck it into the powder.

“Open your mouth,” he directed.

Idelle complied.

“You’ve done coke before, yeah?” he asked, sliding his finger along the edge of her tongue.

“Ugh!” Idelle cringed, lapping her tongue out like a cat. “That tastes like shit!”

“Shouldn’t taste like anything,” he explained. “Coke should numb your tongue, innit?” He held up the baggy. “This is _not_ coke.”

Idelle sat back on her heels. “Well, what the fuck is it then?”

“Something I don’t want a goddamn thing to do with,” John answered, handing it back to her.

He picked out an oxy, grabbed the half empty bottle of water sitting beside his bed, and downed one of those instead.

“What’s it like?” Idelle asked faintly, slicing through the thick silence like a razorblade.

John twisted the top of his water bottle shut, thoughts burying him like an avalanche. It was like the crackle of a fire in the coldest of winters. It was like the warmth of a reassuring hug, a first kiss from your biggest crush, that first _I love you_ that had you walking on air for the entirety of the day. It was like the greatest sex and the best orgasm you've ever had in your life. It was like the very destruction of worry, and fear, and doubt, and anxiety, and uncertainty, and dread. It was like the courage and strength and confidence that you never learned how to develop on your own. It was like the solution to every problem; the answer to all the questions that you didn’t even know you had. It was calmness, and comfort, and joy. It was that breath of fresh air in a suffocating world. It was peace. It was pure, unimaginable peace.

“It’s the biggest mistake you’ll ever make in your fucking life,” he answered.

“Seriously,” Idelle pushed. “I’m curious.”

“And I am dead fucking serious.”

She didn’t know. No one really knew why John had lost his leg, save for those select few who’d managed to pry the story out of him with some unknown form of sorcery. And by that right, he’d wanted to excuse her for what was now snowballing into the biggest transgression against him in a very long fucking time. But seeing her there, holding those memories in her hand, offering him a passport through time that he’d never asked for yet felt so tempted to accept - John felt threatened. He felt mocked, even.

“Get that shit out of my house,” he warned, his voice cracking embarrassingly. He swallowed the lump crawling up his throat. “And whoever the fuck brought it in here, too.”

Idelle blinked up at him. “I’m sorry. I--”

“ _Now_ , Idelle!”

“Right.” She scrambled to her feet. “Right. Sorry.”

It’d been eight entire years since he’d knowingly been in the same room as a bag of H; eight entire years spent wondering what he’d do were he ever face to face with the son of a bitch again. And now John knew. Now he’d seen that the bastard still had his number, having never forgotten his name. It’d still managed to call to John, clapping him on the shoulder like an old friend with no concept of holding grudges.

And as soon as the door shut, John felt like he was drowning, gasping for air, gripping the edge of the mattress, and dropping his head while tears swelled into his eyes. How was this even possible? How the fuck could he still harbor even the slightest hint of a desire to taste the very fucking thing that had mutilated him?

What the hell was wrong with him?

_No. Fuck that._

It took him all of two seconds to pick out another Oxy and chew it up this time, hoping to bypass the time release coating and forget all about the ugly truth of the matter. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t fixed any of it. He was still the same fucking junkie he was eight years ago. Still unable to fight those same dubious battles on his own. Still weak. Still afraid and alone and a failure. And still weak. Still so fucking weak.

John lit a cigarette, then fell back onto his bed to watch the swirls of smoke dissipate in the winds of his ceiling fan. He shut his eyes eventually, took several deep breaths, reminding himself that everyone was addicted to something that took the pain away. And by the end of that blessed cigarette, he no longer had to worry about the horrible feeling of drowning. Because finally, deep in the darkness of his bedroom, John was flying…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sighs forever*
> 
> When will John Silver let me fucking rest? T_T
> 
>  
> 
> Hai, frands, 
> 
> This chapter took me much longer than any of the others. I just want to take a second to thank those of you who sent me asks on Tumblr, who messaged me or commented. Thank y'all for sticking with this story, and with me. I'm hella flattered there were even people afraid I'd abandoned it. Well, I have not. And I will not <3
> 
> I hope you've enjoyed John's final chapter. Not exactly a happy ending, but not a completely hopeless one either. I don't want to spoil your takeaway with my own theories, though. There's still one more chapter to go. Hope to see you all there.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! 
> 
>  
> 
> Love and Rockets,
> 
> Trinity.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [Tumblr](http://crucifythenburn.tumblr.com/) and lets geek out over queer pirates ^€^ 
> 
> Love and Rockets,  
> Trinity


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